Charmed Life
by Miss Forrester
Summary: The fight for the crown of Cybertron - for the survival of an ideal and the abolishment of another - is over. Has been for some time. Their whole world has been reshaped, reformed, in the ideals of those who fought hard to win against the tyranny of Megatron of Tarn. Now, the war is but a whisper, an echo, of the past that no one dares speak of. But is the war TRULY over and done?
1. the Big Charmed Life Soundtrack

**the Big Charmed Life Soundtrack**

 _ **compiled by Miss Forrester**_

In honor of the fact that Charmed Life is based around an AU of MTMTE, I've decided to compile my own soundtrack for the fanfiction, free for your enjoyment, to set the mood, as a nod to the original comic series by James Roberts. I will update the list every time I post up a new chapter. There will be eight songs I pick specially to fit the mood of the entirety of the tale, and from there on, 2-5 songs per chapter.

 **Series Overall:**

Joy Williams - Charmed Life

30 Seconds to Mars - Closer to the Edge

Mat Kearney - Ships in the Night

Birthday Massacre - Kill the Lights

30 Seconds to Mars - Kings and Queens

Andrew Belle - All Those Pretty Lights

 **Charmed Life #0**

the Leisure Society - Our Hearts Burn Like Damp Matches

Measure - Begin Again

Brooke Waggoner - Fresh Pair of Eyes

 **Charmed Life #1**

Green Day - Basket Case

Overnight Lows - I Got Up

US Royalty - Every Summer

Meiko - Heard It All Before

 **Charmed Life #2**

Cary Brothers - Ride

2AM Club - Same Night Sky

 **Charmed Life #3**

Joy Division - Atmosphere

Lindsey Stirling - Shadows

the Dear Hunter - Blood of the Rose

 **Charmed Life #4**

One Republic - Secrets

Allie Moss - Dig With Me

Bat for Lashes - Daniel

SOAK - Digital Witness

 **Charmed Life #5**

Jon Brion - Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind Theme

Tindersticks - City Sickness

Bastille - Overjoyed

 **Charmed Life #6**

Matchbox Twenty - How Far We've Come

Timmy Curran - Comatose

Orelia Has Orchestra - Suggestions

Andrew Belle - My Oldest Friend

 **Charmed Life #7 (this chapter hasn't been uploaded, yet - it's recommended to wait until it is)**

Gregory and the Hawk - Oats We Sow

Katie Herzig - Wish You Well

Kari Kimmel - Remember


	2. 00: Genesis

"A bridge of silver wings stretches from the dead ashes of an unforgiving nightmare

to the jeweled vision of a life started anew."

\- Aberjhani, _Journey Through the Power of the Rainbow_

Something about the unfettered calm of those infernal blue optics set his systems on high alert - alike to the feeling of wariness imprinted permanently into his processor. If he just closed his own optics, he could almost forget that he was sitting in a well-kept office situated directly in the center of Polyhex.

He could pretend Cybertron was in ruins, that the war was far from over, that he was surrounded by those he had come to call his brothers - his most trusted allies, his personal team. In fact, he could almost feel the hesitant touch of a small femme flit across his rotator cuff - meant to soothe, to inquire.

But those days were over, and he supposed the reason he had been called here was to learn how to cope with this new reality, the one that picked at something in his processor, that nagged at his spark, dragging a shadowed claw across his dreams, the whisper in his helm that _you are not meant to know peace_.

He was a warrior, a zealous advocate of the most noble cause he had ever known, the leader of an elite force and keeper of the justice of his allies. He was Tarn - and once, the very murmur of his designation might have caused the spark to waver in confidence, might have swept fear, icy and cold, into the circuits of any mech or femme who thought of his face.

Yes, once, they all would have quivered in fear. No one would dare step around him or ignore his presence as they hurried about their business. No one would dare to look in his direction without falling to their knees to begin their pathetic begging for their lives.

And yet, here he was, sitting across from someone whose faceplates displayed no hint of fear, or even of discomfort. He had never known the Autobot blue to be so unsettling, but in her optics, he saw his own reflection, and he realized that this was all he might ever see when he looked at her. Optics were windows to the spark, he had once heard.

He remembered the fear and the anguish, the fleeting joy and escatic cheeriness, the pride, the envy. But he had never seen this before. It was as if she was a closed book. When she looked at him, all he saw was himself. And something about that was wrong, so wrong, in ways he couldn't begin to explain.

Who was she? Who was this femme that he had never known to exist until he was pushed in her direction by fate (and his superiors - who were concerned about his alleged inability to adjust to civilian life)?

He would not cave. He would not bend. Tarn did not forfeit, or surrender. He had to be beaten and dragged off the _Peaceful Tyranny_ in order to be tried for his alleged "war crimes". Of course, the new order of Cybertron insisted that the death sentence was not one they condoned - so they had instead given him a second chance, a mercy, as they saw it.

To him, it was bitter agony. And he suspected that they must have known.

To be spared from death by his former enemies - it was worse than letting down his master.

( _Former_ master.)

It meant he was weak - that he had never been strong or powerful enough to be taken as a real threat. He recalled what fate had befallen his teammates - they had been spared, but separated. Advised not to seek each other out.

He had not heard from them since.

She shifted across from him - his optics zeroed in on the movement, watching her closely, carefully. Nothing she did would escape his notice. He was out of practice, but he was certain that if circumstance called for it, he could bring her to her knees.

The femme seemed to take note of his rigid posture, and held out her servo in what appeared to be a well-mannered gesture. "It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, fellow stranger."

There was a quirk to her lip components, bringing to light the youthful glow that came with many of Cybertron's current inhabitants. _She is very young_ , he noted to himself, musing. _Perhaps generation one_.

After the restoration of their home planet, the Well of Allsparks had begun to craft newsparks once more, having seen the end of a long and tiresome war. It was time for peace, their home had decided, and the first step was to allow new life to step into the frame in order to wash away the spilled blood of the old one.

He could still recall the way his personal informant's expression had shifted, optics filled with a new hope that he couldn't quite understand at the time (and still could not). He could still remember the awe that filled the other mech's voice as he described the innocence and the ignorance of the newsparks.

The open willingness to trust strangers; the bright smiles and the cheerful laughs; the hope of building anew that they inspired into the sparks of older mechs and femmes whom had once lost everything.

He did not arrive in time to see these newsparks. By the time he was dragged into court, the first ones had grown and many generations since had been sparked to rebuild the war-torn society of Cybertron.

But he could see the sickening love in the optics of the older generations, of the Veterans, and he noticed how they seemed to move to protect the younglings instinctively as soon as they sensed danger, even in the form of a heated argument.

The younglings did not understand this need to protect - but then again, they had not witnessed the level of horror brought about by war. They understood that this was something the veterans would take time to adjust to, and they, in fact, moved to help in any way they could.

Hence, the resurgence of old professions and the introduction of many new ones.

By far, the one that had grown most in number was the therapist's position, systems analysis, psychology - anything that could aide the newer generations in understanding and helping their elders.

Many notorious mechs and femmes had been graciously integrated into this new society due to this - but still others, those whom had seen the worse parts of the war, or those who still could not comprehend all they had lost, or the fact that their cause had been the one to lose - those had the most trouble adjusting.

And thus the profession was a strong one to steer towards.

He saw the flicker of hesitation in her optics, at once felt relief flood into him. She was not fearless - she merely could not allow herself to show personal emotion or prejudice. Thus was protocol of the profession, he had heard.

"Likewise," was his drawl of a response, though he did not take her hand. He would not indulge her - no, he had much better things to do with his time than to entertain the notion of playing nice with an Autobot. Or anyone whom had the blue optics of the enemy.

She noted this, and drew back, expression unchanged.

He felt an itch - this was frustrating. He was Tarn, of the Decepticon Justice Division - did she know nothing? How dare she presume to behave as if his presence were commonplace.

He did not grace many with a visit, and those he did, usually did not live to tell the tale.

She should be relieved he had chosen not to speak more than a single word.

 _Presumptuous child_.

Then, her optics flickered to the data pad placed face-down on her end of the elegant glass table.

"My records have no real indication of your designation, or of your previous occupation," she spoke after a moment she spent studying him. He could not tell what exactly she had been searching for, but he was certain she must not have found what she wanted.

(Or so he believed.)

"Do you know nothing?" He was in control, not this strange femme with her equally strange smile and those empty optics that said nothing and begged every question he could think of. He was in control, and he would remain in control. This was simply the way of things.

To his increasing frustration, she inclined her helm, that same smile tugging at her lip components once more. Almost as if she were taunting him, or playing a complex game only she found enjoyment in.

"It would seem I don't. How unfortunate."

His optics studied her expression, trying to make something of it, but finding that it was akin to grasping at air. "I would assume that you were informed in adequate detail of the Autobot faction and all its innermost workings." His claws clicked against the arm of his seat, a gesture of patience that was not lost on her.

He felt a familiar itch, a burning lash of desire, but resisted. Now was not the time.

He would speak to his assigned medic soon enough about the weaning of his precious transformation cogs. No, at this very moment, in this very office, he could not lose himself to his preferred recreational habit. He needed to remain in control, to maintain focus.

This pretentious little Autobot, pathetic as she (surely) was, would not be granted the pleasure of catching a moment of weakness in his otherwise firm resolve.

She remained in an upright position, perhaps wondering what his reasoning was for bringing up such a sensitive subject. It was almost an unspoken rule to avoid discussion of the war - its reasonings, its triggers, its factions and outcome. None of it was regarded as appropriate conversational topics.

Tarn did not give a frag - excuse his unfortunately colorful wording.

In his world, nothing was off the table for discussion. He did not care much for a sensitive mech or femme - if they could not stomach the truth, then perhaps they were too weak to handle the reality that surrounded them. Weakness was unacceptable, by all means.

He would not accept weakness - especially not from this tiny femme.

If she desired to speak with him, she would be required to indulge him in his interests. It was only polite. And she was not an uneducated creature - this much, he could tell.

"I have heard very little about the war," she was unashamed in admitting this, he could tell. But then, she took him by surprise (something that was not so simple a task in accomplishing) - because she gave him a look that was unmistakably one of amusement.

"Though I suppose informing you that the Cybertronian civil war is a sensitive topic would do nothing to derail you from speaking about it." She was correct in this assumption. It would not give him the slightest moment of pause.

A very small part of him suspected that perhaps she was more curious about the war than she would ever let on. As was his duty to his Lord and master, he would grace this poor creature with the knowledge of his gracious cause.

He could not begin to imagine the pain one must endure to feel that one is without purpose.

Though he suspected a blank slate would be easiest to convince than one who was well-acquainted with the facts of the war. "The cause is all that I am. It is who I was meant to be, what I was meant to do in this infernally long life, and what I will forever look to as guidance. I will never stray - that is the path of a coward, and of a shameless traitor."

Her expression remained still. "I see."

"No," he interjected, "you do not. You see, one does not truly understand this life if one does not acknowledge the truth and ingenuity of the words of my liege lord."

"You served alongside the Decepticon forces, then?"

"I see that my words have struck a chord if the concept of truth brought to mind the noble cause." If he was able, he was certain his engines would purr in satisfaction, in pride.

"You are not the first Decepticon I have held audience with."

"So it seems." His claws laced over the smooth surface of the table separating the two of them. "My lord is a powerful advocate of freedom from the old functionist values of Cybertron. It would be a fool's errand to turn a deaf ear to his words."

"And so it comes to light that many of your brothers in arm also spoke of the warlord Megatron as one would speak of a god." She did not seem particularly impressed with this concept.

He felt a thrill of something like wrath, tightening around his spark with the pulsating desire to end the haughty little femme. He could _feel_ the pulsing of her spark, if he listened closely enough - it was thrumming with a tranquility he had not encountered in his conversational partners for a very long time.

It would only take a moment to match this beating with the lull of his words - it would be as if her spark had given out. It was so simple, so easy - and yet, he felt hesitant to proceed with doing this. It almost felt wrong to do what he did best without the company of his teammates.

"He _is_ a god," came his eventual response once he had bitten back the urges. "He is the only god I would ever follow to the ends of this universe - and others. For him, I would have gladly taken the life of any who stood in his way."

"What devotion," she observed, optics studying his expression through the dim lighting of her office. Then, her helm inclined towards him, body leaning closer, almost as if to share a secret. "It only begs the question - is he as enthusiastic about his cause as you are?"

He became very still, optics narrowing. Voices filtered in through his processor, hazy memories he had tried to bury with more bodies, with high-grade and the screams of transgressors, with forced stasis lock when the thoughts became too much.

With Nuke when he had all but given up.

Not even his favorite hobby could erase the words he had listened to. It was true - Lord Megatron had abandoned his cause, and the very people he had rallied to fight for his vision. He had turned his back on the Decepticons, on a casteless society - he had turned his back on everything Tarn had devoted himself to. In essence, he had abandoned hope.

He had betrayed Tarn.

And it had devastated him.

But how did this little femme know anything about that? She had all but implied that Lord Megatron had betrayed the cause when none but the cowardly crew of the Lost Light knew about it. Not even Soundwave, head of surveillance and chief communications officer, had known what Lord Megatron had done until it was all but much too late.

Was this common knowledge, now? Did the citizens of Cybertron prowl the streets, teasing the ignorant stupidity of the Decepticons who were so blinded by their own faith in Megatron that they hadn't seen his betrayal coming?

There was a prominent crunch, and he lowered his optics, finding that the remains of the right arm of his chair were gripped tightly in his closed fist. There was a flash of blue - the torn wires had dug into his servo and drawn forth his lifeblood.

His gaze flickered, and their optics met. Her blue optics were questioning, though he could swear he saw a flash of concern sweep across her otherwise blank expression.

She opened her mouth, but he cared not for whatever she had to say.

He pulled himself out of the once-pristine seat, and gave her nary a glance as he made his way for the door. "This is finished. You will hear no more from me, femme."

And she really should have been relieved to hear this. Any sane person in their right mind would be. But he was beginning to doubt that she possessed any notion of sensibility.

"I am truly sorry to hear that."

He paused, claws brushing against the door. Then, he turned.

She had climbed to her feet, as well. The femme was small, as he had predicted, a petite little thing. But there was something about the way she carried herself.

An air of authority, of regality. He considered the concept odd - she couldn't be older than fifteen vorns, at the most. She piqued his curiosity.

"Are you?"

For the first time since he had stepped foot into her office, she wasn't smiling. She was very serious, judging by the look on her faceplates, and he decided that this expression was his personal favorite.

He despised that infernal smile of hers.

(He wondered what she looked like when she was in a moment of distress - and figured that would be worth a second session. Or a third.)

"With all due respect, some of us do not choose to make a dishonest living. I am no liar."

A feral snarl escaped his careful maintenance of control, though she did not appear disheartened by this notion (though she did take a well-advised step back). "How charming. I do so adore the notion of honesty in a world like ours. It's almost enough to convince me that perhaps you do, after all, possess a sense of humor."

He took a single step towards her, a menacing gesture, and unsurprisingly, she did not step back. He was beginning to expect this level of defiance from her. It thrilled him - to an extent that he had not experienced since the last time he had dealt with a traitor to his cause.

"My sense of honor does not exist for your entertainment," her blue optics were sharp, a piercing blade, narrowed in her indignation. He resisted the urge to display his most victorious grin - and instead settled for a reproachful expression of disapproval.

"What do you know of honor, child?"

"I am no child," she informed him, servos placed over her hips. Her grip was tight - he could see it from here. He took another step towards her - she furrowed her eyebrows.

"Very well. Perhaps I will return."

The tension was shattered.

"You will?" she folded her arms across her chest. "Why?"

"If for no other reason, to test a theory." This time, he _did_ grace her with his most menacing grin. "I will not rest until I watch you fall apart, one way or another."

Something about his words sent a visible shudder down her spinal struts - he felt the intoxicating sense of victory shoot through his bloodstream.

"Not if you fall apart first," was her chilling response. "I will gladly do whatever it takes to get you to adjust to this new life, sir. Cybertron is finally experiencing a time of peace after a very long and grating war. You deserve to be given a second chance, as well."

"There is nothing for me beyond the cause," he growled, feeling that familiar itch.

"You will never know if you don't let yourself see what else you can become. If no one else, I do believe in you, and I know that somewhere inside of your spark, you don't want those memories, or this terrible misery. You want to be happy, too, and I will help you find that peace you need, by any means necessary."

There was something odd that gripped its icy fingers around his spark - he couldn't find the words. For perhaps the very first time in his life, Tarn was struck speechless.

That same passionate display of concern had only ever flickered across the faceplates of Nickel.

Especially in regards to himself, whom most (including himself) considered a lost cause.

Lord Megatron himself had turned his back on him, so why was it so difficult for this femme to understand that there was no point in trying? What was so special about him?

He was a devoted follower of the noble cause - nothing more, nothing less.

And yet, when she looked at him, she saw something else, something he could not see reflected in her optics because it did not exist. He opened his mouth, then closed it, at a loss for words.

His denta ground together in his agitation. She _was_ a liar. A terrible liar. And Tarn did not appreciate being lied to. Especially when the lies fell from the lips of an Autobot. Something about that idea tickled him - in a manner that was entirely unpleasant and completely aggravating.

She held out her servo, a gesture similar to their very first moments together.

"I will see you again, soon, Tarn."

"It appears that is the case." He watched her, and then reached for her servo with his own.

If she was smart, if she was clever, if she valued her life, she would have pulled away.

Would have never agreed to seeing him a second time, much less a third.

But as it seemed, this little femme had a death wish.

She allowed him to touch her, and they shook on their deal.

"Off the record, my designation isn't child, or anything else you might choose to call me. It's Clandestine."

A truly radiant designation that spoke volumes of who she was.

Or rather, or what her own caretakers had noticed.

She was a mystery, a secret, misunderstood by all, perhaps loved by none.

They had much more in common than he had ever cared to acknowledge. He looked directly into her optics for the last time that day, though he knew he would never forget that piercing gaze. It left quite the impression, beckoned him closer.

Her expression was meaningful, serious.

He needed to break her. Needed it more than anything he had ever needed in his long life.

And he would have it. He would claim this last victory.

It was the only way he could ever achieve true peace.

He decided right then and there, this was the last hunt. She would be his last prey - and he would have no help from his teammates. This was a test he had set for himself - if he succeeded, he was a worthy Decepticon who had done his cause justice. He could lay down his weapon, and finally embrace the Cybertron that now was.

If not, then perhaps there truly was nothing left for him.

The steady thrumming of her spark followed him out, and a dark smile, unbidden, snaked its way across his faceplates.

This was just the beginning of a beautiful story - he could tell. And Tarn was going to enjoy breaking his little mystery.


	3. 01: Relativity of Truth

In regards to my single review, the Real Clair (which is amusing, considering that you and I both know exactly why you named yourself that xD ), I did, indeed, write more, right now.

And I hope it's to your liking. That goes for all of my readers! Don't be shy about leaving a review or a favorite, or, heavens forbid, a follow. I will always try to get back to each and every one of you. Scout's honor.

And yes, just in case it wasn't clear, this will be an actual ongoing series, not a single piece like my other works. (Without counting Power of the Stars - which I have yet to get back to, unfortunately enough.)

Favorite, review, and follow! (If it pleases you.)

And, of course, all canon story-lines mentioned in this novel, as well as canon characters, belong to their respective owners. I only own whoever you don't recognize, such as Clandestine and a good deal of her friends and colleagues.

If you notice that anything is out-of-sync (such as a character's personality or a detail regarding anything out of a character's mouth - or past -), please do inform me. I will otherwise do my best to stick as close to canon as possible, though for obvious intents and purposes, my tale deviates from the original storyline. And, of course, I will place some added facts or lies to fit in with my story. Just be patient - you'll see where I'm going with this. All good things come to those who wait, as they say.

Yours Truly,

Miss Forrester

* * *

"There's more to stories than it seems at first looking," she said. "Two sides to most stories. Folks better be thinking about that for once."

\- Augusta Scattergood, _Glory Be_

"Perhaps you should accept help when it's offered, Destine."

The glow of the moon proved to be enough to light up the expression of disdain that decorated the young doctor's faceplates. "I will accept help when I truly believe I am in need of it."

Her companion gave her a steady look of disapproval. "I know it must have been trying to deal with the board's special brand of questioning - "

"That wasn't what I would call _questioning_ , Bio. What they did to me, the way they humiliated me and caused me to doubt my own competency, that was an interrogation. Don't try to paint it with a pretty hue - they didn't think I was capable of applying what I learned."

Clandestine still felt the familiar twinge of undignified rage when she pictured the expressions on their faces. The way they would look at each other after pointedly staring her down, as if deciding whether to renew her license was a nuisance, at best.

She was fully qualified to deal with her clients, and if those fumbling bunch of idiots refused to see that, then that was just their problem - it shouldn't have to endanger her career. After all, considering what she had been through to prove herself, her license was all she had.

The war had certainly taken its toll - in this new day and age of Cybertron, the new generations were experiencing difficulty in proving themselves to the aged citizens of Cybertron. Apparently, nothing they did was enough proof of competency in their field of study.

It was almost as if the veterans still saw them as children - and it was absolutely infuriating.

Years, long years, had passed since the first generation of newsparks had emerged from the Well, and even now, they would never be seen as adults. How could they make a honest living if the veterans wanted to give them everything on a silver platter instead of allowing them to work for it?

It was degradation of the highest degree.

"I know, Clandestine, I was there." He threw up his hands in a mockery of defeat, of surrender. "Try to remember that it wasn't just _your_ license on the line."

There was a rush of guilt, and she lowered her helm. "I'm sorry, Bio. I just - I can't stand it that even after all that trouble, they still think I need help handling myself on the job."

"If it means anything, I doubt your age is fully to blame, Clandestine," he pointed out, taking a moment to drink from his energon cube. "They have seen things we haven't, and the cases you were assigned are enough to make anyone nervous."

Her fingers pulled at the rim of her own cube, a habit she had developed in her earlier years.

"I thought the whole point of this program was to give them a second chance. They deserve to be given a clean slate. It's hardly fair to agree that the war is a taboo subject only to parade former Decepticons around as if they're complete monsters."

"I'm not saying I disagree, but what did you expect? These are former Autobots. They won the war. Of course we're only going to hear their side of things," Biohazard gave her a meaningful look.

"To be fair," Blackjack interjected - who, of course, couldn't help listening in on their conversation. (Especially considering it was the only interesting one to be heard, at the moment.) "The Decepticons did commit their fair share of heinous crimes. I only wonder what exactly the Autobots _aren't_ telling us. Cybertron wasn't left in ruins by one faction alone."

"What do you mean?" Biohazard's optic ridges were furrowed.

"Come now, Hazard. You don't honestly believe that the Autobots were always the heroes, do you? At some point, I heard tell that the little people fled Cybertron because both sides were getting pretty nasty and the world was becoming a scary place."

(Biohazard seemed ready to respond in kind, but Quicksilver placed a single hand on his shoulder, as if to stop him, and that was the end of said protest.

Clandestine knew better than to assume the other femme was looking out for her mate - she was likely very curious and desired to hear all of what was to be said instead of allowing Biohazard's constant defense of the Autobots to ruin any chances she had of doing just that. Quicksilver was always on the lookout for the "whole story" - and right now, the Autobots seemed strangely intent on avoiding her questions.)

"Jackie, there are some things that aren't meant to be repeated aloud," mumbled Roulette, taking a long swallow from his cube. Clandestine tried not to wrinkle her nose - that cube was radiating an awful stench.

("Engex," he caught her staring. "Want some? I was just about to order a refill."

"No, thanks," she declined as politely as she could.

He shrugged. "Suit yourself.")

"Wait, you mean to tell me that the Autobots were lying when they told us that the Decepticons had caused the destruction of Cybertron with their greed and powerlust?" Calibrate's mouth was agape in her shock. Poor thing - she had always been one to blindly trust in the words of her elders.

"Of course - everything those old kooks say about the war can only be taken with a grain of salt. It's all just a bunch of glorified poppycock," Road Rage shook his head in what appeared to be disappointment (though Clandestine didn't believe it for a second - Road Rage had never been one to believe anything _anyone_ said, so what was he to be disappointed about?).

"You're always saying things like that - I thought it was just a quirk of yours," Calibrate looked almost sad. Clandestine knew she wasn't the only one feeling a sudden urge to comfort her - the femme brought out the urge to protect in anyone.

She could see Biohazard's optics softening - point taken, she told herself, trying not to smile because then she would have to explain what she was thinking about.

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," interjected Quicksilver. All helms turned to look at her, the reason being that every time she spoke, she usually had something intelligent to add to the conversation. "I don't think we should just discredit everything the Autobots have claimed. _Some_ of it has to be true, at the very least."

"You're right - the problem here isn't that they're lying. The problem is that they're not telling us everything. They're omitting the parts that make them look bad."

There was a collective groan from the others, though Clandestine kept her mouth closed and optics lowered. The energon would de-compress if she continued to stare at it without drinking.

But she couldn't bring herself to lift the cube to her lips. Perhaps it was the late hour, or maybe her processor was still glitching from trying the infamous Nightmare Fuel (something she vowed never to touch, again, for as long as she should live), but something about the sight of her cube was repelling any desire to continue drinking.

"Wait, hang on, now, everyone. I don't think Road Rage is going on empty fumes, here," Blackjack intercepted, servos busy with serving up another cube of Engex for Roulette.

"Meaning?" pressed Quicksilver.

"Meaning that people will say a lot when they don't think anyone's listening."

"Say a lot? Like what? Do tell," encouraged Road Rage, though judging from Calibrate's expression, not everyone wanted to hear whatever Blackjack had to say.

In fact, one would be hard-pressed to find anyone who truly wanted to have their illusion of Cybertron's "heroes" tainted by the full story. But Clandestine was beginning to think that believing everything the former Autobots told them was a mistake - it was no wonder they found her incapable of doing her job.

Autobots were not known to be particularly good liars - and if she proved foolish enough to believe every lie they sold, then perhaps she wasn't cut out to keep her license and deal with seasoned liars, after all. (It was said that the Decepticons received their name from the deception they used in the early days of the war to gather support for their cause.)

(Of course, this could also be an Autobot lie.)

"I'm beginning to wonder whether anything they ever said was true," she murmured, a remark meant mostly for her own ears, though Biohazard heard every word she said. As did Road Rage.

Nothing escaped his notice, it seemed.

"Look, even Clandestine thinks they were lying," he pointed out.

"Why would they lie? They have no reason - they won the war, didn't they?" was Biohazard's argument.

"But who's to say they won it _the right way_?" asked Road Rage.

"There _is_ no _right way_. It was a war - wars aren't won by diplomats. Wars are won by warriors," Roulette put in his two cents, seemingly distracted otherwise by his Engex cube.

"Exactly," Road Rage looked around the counter at their faces, gauging their reactions. "Now, why would the Autobots want us to know what really happened if it incriminated them?"

" _Incriminate_ \- ? They saved our people from extinction. Whatever methods they had to use - they're completely justified. The elder council tried war criminals, and none of them were Autobots," Biohazard pointed out.

"Because the council was put together by Autobots, you moron," Road Rage gave him a taunting look. "Why would they bite the hand that feeds?"

"So you're saying the fact that they weren't tried has nothing to do with their actions during the war?" asked Quicksilver. She was scribbling something onto her data pad, and Clandestine resisted the temptation to remind everyone that there was a reporter in their midst.

(That maybe it wasn't a good idea to discuss civil-war-theories around her.)

"That's exactly what I was saying," Road Rage looked almost triumphant. "It wouldn't be the first time the system was bribed into looking the other way. Remember Rodimus Prime? He vanished to look for the Knights of Cybertron, which ended in complete failure, and multiple on-board deaths of a few members of his crew. But did anyone see that for what it was? No. They deemed him a good leader who had tried his best - which I say is scrapheap, regarding that even _he_ knows he failed as a Prime."

"Not to mention Starscream," added Blackjack, looking absolutely delighted that this conversation had taken that turn. Calibrate was looking so destroyed, poor thing.

"The _Lost Light_ was on a noble mission, mind you," she corrected Road Rage, who looked about as impressed as a child presented with a broken toy. "And Starscream - okay, that _was_ admittedly a mistake. But we all make mistakes - why are you all being so hard on them? I can't imagine that it's very easy to handle a war, or its after-effects."

("Starscream?" Quicksilver was puzzled - rightly so.

Clandestine hadn't heard anything about a _Starscream_ , either.)

"You're completely right, Road Rage," said Roulette, sobering up all at once.

"I am?" Road Rage quickly recovered from his momentary surprise. "I mean, of course I am."

("Am I?" he repeated.)

"Yes, you are. The Autobots committed their fair share of war crimes. It was an ugly time to be alive, when one side was willing to do anything to win, and the other wasn't certain what lines not to cross in retaliation." Roulette took another swig from his cube.

("I think you've had enough," Calibrate intervened, taking away his cube and ordering something watered down. "We don't need you stumbling blindly through the streets of Kaon, again."

Blackjack provided her with the energon she had ordered, though he looked disappointed to have lost good business.)

"Is that the reason they weren't tried - their actions were simply in retaliation?" Quicksilver looked almost upset by this turn of events - for good reason. If that was true, then she definitely didn't have a story.

Not one that anyone would care about, anyways. The masses were getting pretty tired of paying sympathies to former Autobots. They just wanted the war to go away.

Well, most people did. There were others who were very fascinated by the topic.

"No. They weren't tried this time around because earlier, when Starscream played as Lord of Cybertron - that was their time to plead their cases."

"Really? I didn't hear anything about that," Road Rage appeared to be very interested.

No one knew how Roulette knew as much as he did. They all just knew that he always had the better stories to tell. "Trust me, Starscream wasn't squandering any chances he had of prosecuting the enemy. They paid their dues - the Decepticons didn't. That's why the council held trials this time around for them."

"Wasn't Megatron tried during that time, too?" Quicksilver pressed.

"Megatron?" faltered Calibrate.

"Yes, Megatron - as in, leader of the Decepticons," Road Rage informed her.

"Yes, he was tried. And subsequently pardoned. There's a reason he went on to captain the Lost Light," reminded Blackjack.

"So, he turned his back on the cause and went rogue, but his people still had to pay for what _he_ had started?" Road Rage snorted in disbelief. "That's a load of - "

"They were given the chance to follow in his lead, were they not?" Calibrate asked.

"Yes. But who would follow _that_ lead? It was cowardly - he wasn't winning the war, so he quit. They had the better sense to salvage some dignity and keep fighting for what they believed in," Road Rage explained. "Besides, I heard that Megatron never really changed his ways. He was still pissing people off and making others uneasy. That pointless adventure must've been pure hell."

 _"He_ is _a god. He is the only god I would ever follow to the ends of this universe - and others. For him, I would have gladly taken the life of any who stood in his way."_

Clandestine jolted out of her reverie. Why had she suddenly thought of that?

She had tried to put that unsettling meeting out of mind since the moment the menacing hulk of a Decepticon had left her office. It had not been entirely unpleasant - but she could feel that there was something dark, something evil, bubbling underneath his practiced calm.

And that expression of devotion to a single mech had only confirmed that the most loyal Decepticons were the ones who had lost their minds. Though it _did_ bring her pause to consider that perhaps not everyone had thought of him as a coward when he turned on the cause.

Perhaps some were left without purpose, abandoned, left to feel worthless.

She had seen it in the flicker of Tarn's optics when she mentioned Megatron's questionable loyalty. It had driven her to feel something like sympathy towards the strange mech.

Until he threatened to break her.

(That certainly made any sense of sympathy or compassion vanish as abruptly as it had arrived.)

(Or so she had thought. She still couldn't understand her own motivation for telling him that she could see a second chance in his future - especially considering that she wasn't entirely certain of that. He should have been a lost cause, she could tell. That was why the case had fallen into her hands. They all thought he was as hopeless as she was.)

She gritted her denta in frustration. She would not give up - she would not let them tell her she had no chance. So neither should he. And she wouldn't let him give up.

Never.

She wasn't going to let Megatron's betrayal kill Tarn's will to live.

There was a clatter as her energon cube dropped to the floor, and all helms turned her way. She felt the energon rushing to her own helm, and pressed a finger against her temple. "I think I've had enough to drink."

("But you barely touched your cube," grumbled Blackjack.)

"It is going to be a long cycle, so I should get some rest. I'll see you all back here tomorrow evening," she gathered her data pads, and then spun on the wheel of her heel strut, heading towards the exit of the pub.

"Good luck!"

"Tell us all about it!"

"Don't die!"

She scoffed. Of course, Road Rage _would_ say that. So much for her private conversation with Biohazard. She would have to find some spare time to call him to finish what they had started. After all, she wanted to ask his opinion on this _Tarn_ character.

This was the main reason she had asked him to meet her at the pub.

(Of course, she hadn't expected a private meeting to lead to an outing with all their friends.)

She was beginning to doubt whether she truly was capable of handling this particular client.

Especially after her expression had been so distraught that Rung had offered her his personal assistance with handling Tarn. Knowing his history with the _Lost Light_ , she had declined, for his own good. He had enough on his plate without adding one certain unhinged former Decepticon to the fray.

She could do this. She could - and she would prove it.

Clandestine had only to await the return of her client - _if_ he ever decided to return.

* * *

A wave of overzealous sanitation invaded her scent receptors, and she wrinkled her nose. With that smell came the certainty that Asepsis had dropped by. And most probably wasted away the morning with cleaning up an office that was not even messy to begin with.

That obsession of his was spinning out of control - she wondered whether she should speak to Rung about it. Surely he had the time to speak with their cohort? She, on the other hand, did not. Her schedule was packed, as it was.

And already, she was late for an appointment.

Something Maslow would undoubtedly frown upon if he knew.

(But what he didn't know couldn't hurt him.)

That hope was flushed down the metaphorical drain when she saw that he was, indeed, at the office today. And, as she had correctly assumed, Asepsis had made sure there wasn't a stray fiber out of place.

"You're late," was his unceremonious greeting, along with that familiar twitch of the lip-plates that let her know he was trying his hardest not to smile at the sight of her frazzled appearance.

When he was talking serious business, he didn't like to encourage his conversational partner to ignore him by smiling - that was a sign that he, himself, didn't take his own words seriously.

"I know, Maslow, I know," she rushed over to her personal work-space, placing her bag down on the desk and searching the desk for her case file, data pad, and recorder. "Is he - ?"

"Already there. He didn't arrive too long ago. You are fortunate he is patient," Maslow scolded her. She fought the urge to groan. It was partially Maslow's doing that had caused the board to review her license qualifications. One mistake and he had been ready to flush all her hard work down the drain.

(Granted, it was rather a serious mistake.)

"Give it a rest, would you? I know you don't think I can handle myself in there, but trust me, I didn't always have you there to look over my shoulder, and I did just fine," was her bitter retort. She ignored the look of concern sent her way - she would deal with it later.

(Rung was always concerning himself with her affairs - always worried about how this pressure of dealing with difficult, uncooperative patients affected her mental state. She was growing tired of telling him she was fine, that she knew how to separate her work life from her personal life.)

Right now, she was running short on time.

That being said, she shot them nary a glance on her way out.

* * *

Maslow caught the look that Rung was giving him, the look of disapproval difficult to ignore.

He heaved a sigh. "Do I want to know what's on your processor, Ring?"

"It's Rung," corrected the other, with an air of exhaustion, as if he was growing very tired, indeed, of constantly reminding everyone what his designation was. "Perhaps I should carve my designation onto my desk."

"Or into your chasis," interjected Asepsis with a giggle. "I'm sure then that it would be memorized by every stranger on the streets of Cybertron."

Rung did not like that one bit, and he made this very clear by pretending he didn't see the minibot on his way out. Asepsis had to roll to the side to narrowly avoid being stepped on.

* * *

The screeching of an indignant minibot penetrated the thin walls of the unofficially dubbed "Therapy Room", causing a very curious client to eye the door warily.

"Is there another problem you should perhaps be focusing on, instead?"

Clandestine peered up into his red optics. He offered a smile that could be whimsical, if it didn't remind her of a wounded cyberwolf deciding whether it would be worth it to take a chunk out of the nearest living thing to prove it was still perfectly capable of murder.

In other words, it was absolutely terrifying.

She forced herself to put her personal fear out of mind - she was not here to think about herself. She was here for his sake, to help him, not to hinder him with her ridiculous fear of dying.

(Perhaps, it wasn't actually a "ridiculous" fear, per se.)

"No. I'm sure those id - my cohorts can survive without me."

She had only stopped herself from calling them what they were because she didn't want to come across as detached, cold. Doing that was a mistake if one was attempting to help someone open up. No one in their right mind would want to trust anyone like that.

Thankfully, though she doubted he hadn't caught her mistake, he didn't seem to mind.

In fact, he appeared to be pleased.

"So it appears that the good doctor has a temper," he stated, leaning forward so as to peer down towards her data pad, most probably wondering what she had written about him, so far.

Of course, she didn't allow him to see her notes, pointedly re-directing his attention with a clearing of her throat. "Whether I do or don't have a temper is not up for discussion, Megatron. We are not here to talk about me."

(Yes, Megatron. The very same one. For obvious reasons, related to keeping her job (as client-doctor privilege stated that she shouldn't disclose personal information regarding her clients, or their lives, to anyone unless under warrant to do so), she had never informed her friends of the fact that the legendary warlord was one of her clients. She knew that would lead to an hour of questions that she would be required to skillfully avoid answering. That wasn't harassment she was looking forward to, so she opted to keep her mouth shut. The same went for her other clients - her friends knew she was an active participant of the new therapeutic program for veterans of the civil war, but that was as far as their knowledge extended.)

Her expression prompted a laugh from him, one that was surprisingly warm for a seasoned murderer - surprisingly normal. Friendly, almost.

Clandestine felt her optic ridges furrow in her confusion. "What is it?"

"You are quite possibly the most charming person I have met in this long life of mine."

She decided to take that with a grain of salt - he was, after all, notorious for his pathological lying. However, it did feel nice to receive such a compliment, considering most people she knew considered her to be too-serious, to be moody and sullen, a party-killer who thought too much and acted too little.

(Of course, they never listened when she informed them that there were times for playing and there were times for working - at the very least, she believed they should draw the line when there was an injury at hand, or any other serious subject - such as the war. She did not see mass homicide as a laughing matter, or even something to be spoken of lightly.)

She offered a slight quirk of her lip components, the barest hint of a smile. "You are becoming almost desperate in your attempts to avoid talking about yourself."

He reclined back, his calm expression undaunted by her bold words.

"I was under the impression we had an agreement, doctor. For every story I told, you must exchange one of your own." He tilted his head, matching her gesture with a taunting smile of his own. "Are you truly so _desperate_ to avoid talking about _your_ self?"

"Megatron, this is not - "

"If we are to make any progress, doctor, then an exchange of trust is necessary. How can I trust you if you don't trust me?" His optics glinted as he raised his hands, placating, inquisitive. "If you do not plan to make progress, then perhaps I do not need to stay for the remainder of this session."

His faux polite mannerisms did nothing to deter her from the challenge in his stare.

 _Your move_ , is what he meant.

She considered this.

There was no way to tell for certain if he planned at all to follow through on his deal. Anything he told her could be a lie - or just what he had implied: a really good story. But it would be better than nothing, which is what she would receive if she refused his bargain.

And he was absolutely right - they were here, in this room, to make progress, however it was necessary. _No sacrifice, no victory_ , as they said.

So, she took the plunge.

(Because no one had her at gun point - she wasn't under oath of law to tell the complete truth. He had no way of finding out whether she had lied to him about anything she told him. If he wanted to play this game, then that's exactly what they would do.)

"Where would you like me to start?"

Her servos folded, and a haunting smile pulled his lip components upwards.

"Wherever you would like."

* * *

"You were in there for quite some time," observed her colleague with a distinct look of disapproval (or it could have been concern - both seemed to mean exactly the same in his world).

She heaved a long exvent, fingers combing through the box of audio logs to find one pertaining to her last session with the next patient of the day. "Yes, I was."

There was no point in resisting his questions - if Rung truly wanted answers, he would draw them out, whether she wanted him to or not. He had practiced in this profession for vorns, before and during the longest struggle in Cybertronian history.

No amount of evading his questions was going to get him to back off.

"Hopefully this means you made some progress."

"He's a tough one, Rung. I think the fact that he's finally decided to talk to me is enough miracle to last me an orn."

"Is that all?" he shifted his weight, watching her flip through countless data pads with steady optics. "Nothing he said helped in any way?"

"You know I can't talk about that. They gave _me_ the case for a reason."

He looked almost stung by her statement, and she resisted the urge to apologize for her insensitive wording. She needed to set the boundaries with this one - Rung was far too interested for her liking.

It wasn't as if his interest was misplaced. Rung, himself, had been the one to treat Megatron with similar sessions during the former warlord's time as captain of the _Lost Light_. The only reason he hadn't continued to give him his treatment was because their experiences together on that ship rendered Rung's bias a liability in treating Megatron properly.

Someone in their position couldn't afford to get personal with the patients - it went against basic procedure, as well as the code of a therapist. It wasn't helpful, at all, despite whatever the common populace believed - a personal connection between doctor and patient led to personal misunderstandings.

Megatron needed someone impartial, someone who didn't know his story, someone he could know for certain wasn't an enemy _or_ a friend. That way, he could focus on his road to recovery instead of on the therapist.

But his expression dug its claws into her spark.

"I'm sorry," her voice was lower than usual. "I didn't mean - "

"No, it's fine. You're completely right. I don't know what I was thinking."

That being said, he stood up, hastily shoving his data pads into his bag. He avoided looking in her direction, pointedly, behaving as if his actions required full concentration.

"I must get going, now. I'm afraid I'm late for an appointment."

She didn't stop him from leaving, and felt a second pang of guilt once he was gone and she realized she was relieved due to his absence. Now, she could focus on filing away her notes without worrying that something private would reach his optics.

(Of course, once she caught sight of him, whether on the streets of Kaon or in the office come the following day, she would have to set things straight with him. The last thing she wanted was for there to exist hard feelings between them. He was not only a reliable colleague but also a trustworthy friend.)

(It would be foolish to let their professional lives come between their friendship.)

Something caught her optic as she was scrolling through her notes.

Something she had almost missed during-session.

Clandestine pulled up the corresponding conversation on the audio log.

 _"What did your cause mean to you, Megatron? Why pursue a full-scale war?"_

 _"Our society was driven by the lust for power and status. I, along with countless others, suffered horrendous displays of degradation at the hands of those well-bestowed with plenty simply because we were unfortunate enough to be sparked into a lower class."_

 _..._ (She slid into her seat, finding herself enraptured with the words of her client.)

 _"My cause was the only hope I had of escaping an otherwise pre-determined future. It was the only hope I had of making my own path, and giving others the choice to do the same. I had always seen a caste-free Cybertron as a dream to any who had lived in the chains of the functionist ideals of Nominus Prime. And so that was what my cause meant to me: a chance at grasping the concept of freedom and making that dream of equality a reality."_

 _"Those were noble ideals, Megatron."_

 _"I was not an ignoble mech, doctor."_

(She scanned the room around her, audio receptors tuned in to the log but mind wandering elsewhere.)

 _"If that is truly the case, then why did your cause spiral out of control? When did it become a quest for power and reign over others instead of a fight for freedom from the caste system?"_

 _..._

 _-A great heaving sigh is heard, one she notes to belong to Megatron.-_

 _"The power I was gifted as leader of a revolution was not something I was prepared to face. I was not strong enough to tame it - and so it tamed me. I grew drunk with the obedience and worship I received from my disciples, and in turn, I began to seek out more. There came a point I realized no amount of dominion would ever truly satiate my thirst. I had become what I once despised. I wish I could claim that this happened to all who were offered authority over others, but when I think of my greatest adversary, Optimus Prime, I cannot remember a moment during our struggle which he disgraced himself, or his claim to freedom. It stands to be that only the strong can hold their ground against the allure of power, and the weak perish in the face of it, becoming something that they would never dream they were capable of until it was staring them right in the face every time they caught sight of their reflection."_

 _"You either die a hero or you live long enough to see yourself become the villain."_

There was a click as she brought the recording to an end, reclining back in her seat to think over Megatron's words. He seemed to be making significant internal progress if he had recognized his own mistakes, but the former warlord seemed willing to share his thoughts with her whenever she shared a story of her own.

She would need to decide where to draw the line if she was to succeed in helping Megatron integrate into modern Cybertronian society. It simply would not do to tell him far too much and receive far too little, in return. (Though his personal inspection of the manner in which the war changed him was certainly refreshing to witness - not many people were willing to admit when they had taken things too far in their pursuit of a noble goal.)

(In fact, she had received the sense that 'the ends justified the means' when she spoke to many of her clients - most incidentally having been Decepticons during the civil war.)

If their former leader could admit to his mistakes, why couldn't _they_?

Perhaps there had been no fluid dissolution of the faction, after all. Megatron had reported his personal decisions regarding disbanding the Decepticons in the latest update of his manifesto, _Towards Peace_ , but judging from the mixed reactions of shocked stillness and/or disgruntled acceptance she had received from her clients when she mentioned his abandonment of the cause, not all his loyal disciples had agreed with his final decision.

In fact, some had been uprooted by it. The Decepticon cause had been their way of life, their mantra, their reason for survival and war, for so long, that to suddenly lose it - she could not begin to imagine the hole it must have left behind where a purpose and a certainty in their own role in life must've been.

(From what she had heard, Soundwave, Megatron's former communications officer and surveillance chief, was still experiencing difficulty adjusting. He was tense around former Autobots, and trusted almost no one. He was seen only in the workplace because many suspected he went home straight afterwards. He didn't spend any spare time malingering or even stopping for a simple hello. It was dreadful - she was glad to know that Rung was trying his best to aide the former spymaster in adapting to a post-war society.)

"Clandestine," her train of thought derailed. "You do realize you're going to be late for your next session if you don't get moving?" She peered up, catching Maslow's steady gaze.

"Of course," she murmured, distractedly, as she began to sift through her pile of data pads for the next client's notes and logs. "I'll be right there."

There was a tense moment of heavy silence. "I apologize for any misunderstandings I might have caused. I admit that perhaps it was none of my concern to look so closely into your work, and I understand why you were offended by my decision to take my observations to the board."

She stilled, wondering whether he had truly meant to apologize or had been pushed to that decision by one of her colleagues (ahem, Rung). "Your actions were not completely unwarranted, Maslow. I needed to be tested, and I needed to become certain of what I wanted. When I went in to get my license renewed, I realized I wanted more than anything to do what I do for a living. Sometimes it isn't until you run the risk of losing something that you realize it's worth fighting for."

She offered him what she hoped passed for a reassuring smile - and it seemed to work, because she could see as the tension visibly eased from his posture. "I'm glad to hear it. It is better to benefit from an obstacle than to let it defeat you. You have proven that you truly deserve your qualifications, and for that, I would gladly vouch."

Clandestine stood, and watched as he retreated back to where he had come from.

Perhaps to finish his own work in his personal office.

She, herself, had a session to get to.

Next up - the namesake of her home, and a former member of the Decepticon Justice Division under the lead of Tarn, a mech known solely as _Kaon_. For all intents and purposes, she hoped this session went more smoothly than the last she had seen of him.

Her fingers were itching to close around a cube of high-grade, and without a doubt, she could tell this was going to be a long cycle.


	4. 02: First Appearances

"Things are not always what they seem; the first appearance deceives many; the intelligence of a few perceives what has been carefully hidden."

\- Phaedrus

Not a single word.

That is exactly what she got out of Kaon.

Clandestine sat (suffered) through almost two cycles with this mech, and the only reaction she managed to extract from him at all was a telltale frown. This was his method of informing her that she would be hearing nothing from him. Not today. (Or maybe ever.)

She had always assumed this was going to be easy, this career, because she had always heard that if she loved what she did, it wouldn't be work. But she was beginning to see the error in that judgement. Clearly, whoever believed in that statement had never dealt with her clients.

(Her _special brand_ of clients.)

(She was beginning to wish she hadn't volunteered for the program. Maybe then she would be able to live out a nice, easy life with a nice, easy career full of uncomplicated people who actually really wanted to make proactive changes in their lifestyles.)

(Instead, she was stuck with an unruly bunch who gave the entire face of the planet nightmares from the mere mention of their names. And boy, were they _uncooperative_. But why would they bother making changes to what they thought was perfect?)

Her expression of frustration must've caught her colleague's attention. "Clandestine?"

She peered up into the circular glasses that covered his otherwise open blue optics.

"Perhaps it's time for us to have our break?"

One glance towards the office's timepiece forced her to admit that Rung was right. It was half-past the hour she usually took to go off on break and refuel. She could worry about Kaon's lack of cooperation later.

(If she ever got around to getting him off her mind.)

Not that he was the only mech making a guest appearance in her mind lately.

She pushed that thought away, venomous as it was, and forced herself to smile in a manner that was not entirely convincing, but enough to help Rung pretend he didn't notice that she was troubled.

"Of course."

She packed away the audio logs, the data pads, and her recorder, before slinging her bag over her shoulder. "After you," she gestured to the door, and he led the way without a single look back.

She lingered only for a moment, allowing the moment of tranquility, of quiet and peace, to seep through her sensor nodes and calm her pulsing spark. Clandestine had been (unsurprisingly) nervous since meeting Tarn - every shadow had her on edge and every single person who walked through the door tore through her train of thought. She couldn't focus on her work, she couldn't really refuel very well, and her patterns of recharge left much to be desired.

It was ridiculous. She was very well acquainted with his reputation, and she knew that not many people lived to be threatened by the leader of the infamous Decepticon Justice Division and tell the tale - but this was not those times, anymore.

This was a time of peace, won by the hard work, blood, sweat, and tears of the Autobots. So why was it that everything inside of her was clenched tight, terrified, anxious? Why did she feel as if the shadows of Death followed her everywhere she stepped?

She sighed, fingers coming up to rub at her aching helm, optics shuttering in exhaustion.

This was it. Everyone in her profession eventually encountered what was known as a "nightmare case", and she assumed this must be hers. Or, her first one, anyways.

 _I will not rest until I watch you fall apart, one way or another._

It had taken nearly everything she had not to turn tail and flee that room. It had taken all of her force of will to respond the way she did. And she could see it had the intended effect.

It quieted him. It made him think.

It gave her enough time to still her panicked spark.

"Clandestine?"

She turned on her heel, and left the office with one last look at her terminal monitor.

"Coming."

* * *

"So, no reason to come into the office today, I hope?"

His cheery demeanor was almost contagious - almost.

"Absolutely correct, First Aid. No reason at all."

"Of course, at least not for an immediately medical purpose. The only problem in that office is purely state-of-mind," Rung couldn't help but to interject.

This remark all-but-puzzled Clandestine.

And it seemed to do the same for the good doctor.

"Immediately medical - ?" he echoed.

"That's what confused you the most about that? You've got to be kidding me. Nothing he said made any sense." And there went Whirl, giving his opinion when no one asked for it.

As per usual.

Clandestine, at this point, had to admit that she still had no idea why she bothered to hang out with these people, especially when she could just call up Biohazard and ask him to spend the midday hour with her. She supposed it was probably because Rung had looked so hopeful when he asked her to refuel with him, or because she felt guilty pulling Biohazard away from his work. He had mentioned a few nights ago that he was working on a sister to the infamous cortical psychic patch - something that would cause no physical or mental harm to the one undergoing treatment. A device he hoped would allow the Veterans to clean their slates without it bringing back unwanted memories they didn't want to consciously speak about.

(She was excited to know that she would be the first one he asked to test it out.)

(He hadn't asked her, yet - but considering she and Quicksilver were the only ones who knew, she had a pretty good shot at being able to use the device in her sessions.)

(She was so, so excited!)

(Ahem, but moving on, it was a very convienent and useful tool that certainly would aide the Veterans in integrating into civilian society with the least amount of damage done to their psyches.)

(It was pretty awesome.)

"Whirl's right," she said at last, dragged out of her own mind by the look she was receiving from the ex-Wrecker. "What did you mean by any of that, Rung? Can't help but feel like you're accusing someone."

She took a sip from her energon cube.

He fixed her with a steady look, and she almost choked on the burning liquid as it poured down her throat once she realized why. He had been talking about _her_. "I wasn't accusing anyone of anything, Clandestine. I was making an observation."

"Observation, my aft," muttered Whirl, who pretend to be busy studying his cube when the psychiatrist shot him a scalding look. "What's the big deal, anyway? Observation about what?"

"Observation about _your_ state of mind," said the pastel-colored mech directly to Clandestine.

She gave him a look of barely-contained annoyance. "My state of mind is none of your concern, good doctor." Before he could open his mouth to protest (and that was his plan, judging from his expression of disdain), she got to her feet with her cube in hand.

"I need a refill. Anyone else?"

"Well, if you're offering," stated First Aid tentatively, made nervous by the tension between two of his good friends. Whirl, on the other hand, appeared delighted by this turn of events.

Something he could hardly keep from being made obvious by the purr of his engine. "I'll come with you, Dezzy." Before _she_ could protest, he had taken hold of her servo and begun leading her towards the energon dispenser in the center of the large mess hall.

She didn't have to look back to know Rung was shaking his head in disappointment.

But she didn't care - Clandestine was perfectly content _not_ to talk about what was on her processor. That was her business, alone. "Shanix for your thoughts?"

So why didn't anyone else seem to get it?

"Denied."

There was a groan, suspiciously playful, from her companion. He took both her servos into his tight grasp, paying no mind at all to the way she grimaced at the less-than-pleasant sensation.

"Dezzy, spark of my life, light in my one good optic," he cooed, knowing fully well the effect his carelessly-tossed words had on her - especially paired with their close proximity. Clandestine was always uncertain and insecure when it came to intimacy. And he knew this.

(Was he so sparkless that he would exploit this weakness to his advantage?)

(She thought over this - yes, yes he was. This was _Whirl_ she was talking - er, _thinking_ about. What _wasn't_ he capable of doing to achieve his personal ends?)

"Whirl, no." Hopefully her voice was stronger than she felt. It appeared it wasn't - if his laugh was anything to go by. It was a teasing, unfriendly sound.

"Come on, Clandestine. I promise I won't tell."

"Have you given any thought to the possibility that it isn't any of your business?"

"I have," he paused. "And I've decided to ignore it."

She sighed. It had been worth the try, at the very least.

She passed along her cube to the server, who handed it back with a beaming smile.

A second glimpse confirmed her suspicions. "Calibrate?"

And just like that, Whirl's attention honed in on another unfortunate target.

Surprisingly, he said nothing. His optic zeroed in on her, but he didn't open his mouth to say anything. He just watched her in silence. Serious, unblinking.

The younger femme was nervous after receiving such sudden attention, but if Clandestine knew anything about Calibrate, it was that the other femme hated to make an ordeal of things.

She would ignore it, the therapist assumed.

(And was correct.)

"Yes!" chirped said femme, no small amount of cheer visible in her expression. "I told you I got the internship, didn't I?"

Clandestine studied her makeshift apron.

"I didn't think you meant as a server of energon..." she hesitated, uncertain of whether she should point it out. Calibrate responded with a laugh.

"No, of course I'm not a server! I mean, right now, yes I am, but that's not what I'm in this hospital for." She leaned closer, as if to tell them a secret. "You see, Relish decided to pay his sparkmate a surprise visit! So I took his shift, just for today!"

"I didn't know Relish had a sparkmate," Clandestine remarked thoughtfully, optic ridges furrowed in her confusion. Of course, she knew Relish had a significant other, Mnemosyne, who worked as a mnemosurgeon in the same wing as her office with Rung (one floor above), but -

"Oh, is he planning to use this _surprise visit_ to pop the question?"

Calibrate's expression fell. "How did you know?"

For a moment, neither party said anything, and then the younger femme slapped her servo against her helm in a gesture of sheepish realization. "Primus, I am such a nitwit. Of course you know. I just told you." She sighed, almost in disappointment. "And it was supposed to be a surprise. I'm just no good at this secrecy thing."

"How fortunate for me," said Whirl, and if she could have seen it, Clandestine was certain he would be grinning from audial receptor to audial receptor.

Calibrate met his steady gaze, and then had a most curious reaction when he tilted his head in question. Her faceplates turned an interesting shade of blue, and she avoided optic contact.

"Uhm, erm, I should get going. I've got energon to serve - and all that." She laughed, a nervous sound, and then she was gone, as quickly as her little legs could carry her.

Again, there was an uncomfortable moment of silence between both parties.

Then, her optics narrowed, and she fixed the ex-Wrecker with an accusing glare.

"What did you do?"

* * *

By the time they got back to their table, Rung had finished his third cube of energon, and Clandestine had made a firm pact with herself not to speak with Whirl for the rest of the day. Despite however much he protested and groaned.

(Or pinched her in a fit of cruelty.)

"What is this, you two? What's going on?" Rung demanded to know. But she couldn't properly answer with her pain receptors pinging on and off like that.

"Whirl!" she broke her pact in the span of one hour, tops. "Kindly refrain from placing your hands anywhere near me, you fiend!"

"Fiend," he mocked her. "Fiend, seriously, Dezzy? Is that the best possible word you can think of?"

"It's the nicest one," she muttered, feeling particularly cross.

"Clandestine!"

"What?" she snapped, optics meeting Rung's heated stare from across the table. "What on Cybertron is it with you people today?"

"I'm just," he was stung. "I was just worried about you. Can't you tell me what's going on?"

"You want to know what happened, Rung?" She didn't know why she was so angry, but it felt good to unleash it all in one blow, even if she felt a twinge of guilt for taking out her frustrations on the wrong person. (Especially since he was only trying to help.) "Your friend has no manners or sense of dignity, or of personal space, or of honor. And I just know he must've done something to make Calibrate so nervous. She doesn't just get like that."

"Actually, I'm starting to think you don't know the femme as well as you'd like to think."

She optics were sharp, piercing, unforgiving, when she met Whirl's defiant, indignant gaze.

"What?"

"I said - "

"I know what you said, you unrecycled piece of garbage. I was asking what you meant."

He was getting too comfortable with this argument, now. It seemed the mech would only ever be at peace if he was grating on someone's last nerves. "Has it ever occurred to you that Calibrate is the type of person who _does_ just get nervous?"

"No. She isn't. She's a lot of things, Whirl, but _easily embarrassed_ isn't one of them."

"She wasn't _easily_ embarrassed, Dezzy, if my saying so is of any consolation," he practically purred. Her optics narrowed, the insinuation not quite striking home.

"Is there something I should know about, Whirl?"

Rung appeared rather alarmed. "Whirl, maybe it isn't right to talk about - "

"Oh, it's fine. We're all friends here, right?" he clapped First Aid on the shoulder, of whom appeared rather reluctant to go along with the half-assed lie. "See, Cali and I know each other very, _very_ well."

"Cali?" she echoed. The only other person to ever call her that was Road Rage, and...

And the caller on the other end of the line.

Her admirer, the one who made Calibrate flush with every word he spoke. (The one Calibrate swore wasn't someone she felt romantically inclined towards.) The brash, forthcoming mech who had somehow managed to worm his way into the sweet little femme's spark. (Despite however much she protested this truth.) "It's _you_. _You're_ the secret she wouldn't tell anyone about."

His single optic twinkled, something she suspected was out of mischief.

"That's mean of her," he pretended to feel hurt. "She kept me a secret? With everything I thought we had? Why does she wound me so?"

"Probably because being involved with you in any manner is embarrassing to any self-respecting mech or femme," she muttered. His optic flashed, and he jabbed his sharp pincer into her shoulder.

"What was that, doc? Seems to me like you're itching for a fight."

She rolled her optics, choosing to stay mercifully silent as she took a last sip from her cube.

"Look, as fun as this is, and I'm sure it's probably _very_ fun when it's just you mechs, I've got to be going. My break is over, and I'd rather get some personal filing done before my next client comes in."

First Aid could just barely hide his disappointment. "Bummer. Come see me later, okay?"

She swept her fingers gently, affectionately, against his cheekplate. "Sure thing, sweetspark."

Whirl didn't bother looking up from his cube, even when she hesitated beside him and placed her servo over his. He did pause, however, and then she could sense his smile, the one he was very likely glad she couldn't see. "Swing by again sometime, okay? Don't be a stranger."

"Wouldn't dream of it," was her response, and maybe for the first time, she meant it.

Things hadn't gone as badly as they could have, considering her company.

Of course, if Cyclonus had decided to join them, like he had promised to do before cancelling abruptly once he realized Whirl was going to be there - well, that might have made everything turn out drastically different.

And Tailgate, that sweet little creature, he was stuck on the job, too, so he hadn't been able to join them. That was her usual break crew, though she never bothered with them outside during her personal hours. This had actually been the first time First Aid made a move to change that.

Rung exchanged a bittersweet smile with her, taking a long drink from his cube. She felt guilt wash into her spark. She had treated him so poorly today, and it hadn't even really been the treatment he deserved, considering all that he had done for her.

"Rung?" He lifted his head, attentive. As always, despite the way she treated him. A warmth, a familiar caring and affection, filled her spark. "I'll swing by your place after work today. The guys can wait. We've got a lot to talk about."

His surprise was barely disguised by his casual tone of voice. "Oh. Well, in that case, please don't keep me waiting."

She laid her servo against her sparkchamber. "Have I ever?"

Rung decided not to answer that with honesty and instead just waved her on her way.

Once she was gone, First Aid sighed out, and Whirl placed a single hand on the mech's shoulder. "Poor thing. You're so mooned it's pathetic."

"I'm not mooned!" protested the good doctor, but by that point, Whirl had already moved on to pestering Rung. "I'm not mooned," he repeated, quieter this time, though he knew no one was around to hear it. And what a damn shame, because he almost believed himself this time.

* * *

"I'm telling you, he just keeps getting worse," protested Calibrate, to which Road Rage shook his head in mild disagreement. He took a sip of his energon cube before deciding to burst her bubble.

"Calibrate, I do hate to break it to you, I _really_ do, but Whirl has always been a problem, no matter where he went or who he talked to. It's just how the mech is."

"But why me?" she wailed. "I didn't do anything to deserve his attention. I really _was_ just minding my own business when he decided to play his warped little game."

"Have you tried asking him to back off?" inquired Quicksilver.

Both Calibrate and Road Rage gave her a funny look. It was obvious Quicksilver had never met Whirl. Even if you threatened to throw him into a smelting pit, he still didn't know when to stop pushing your buttons.

The mech was a nuisance, at best.

"Or, if that doesn't work - "

"No, Hazard. We don't need another trip to the station," Quicksilver wasted no time in correcting his dangerous choice of words. Besides a visible pout, there was no other sign he was upset about being cut off.

"Another? What do you mean, _another_? Since when has Biohazard been a criminal?"

If Calibrate didn't know any better, she would have thought Road Rage was honestly concerned about his friend. But, since she _did_ know better, she realized he was only asking because he was bored. A story like that, something undoubtedly interesting and yet worryingly illegal, was just his calling card.

(She was beginning to wonder if perhaps Road Rage had a criminal record she didn't know about.)

"Last minute call for drinks?"

Calibrate found herself staring right into Blackjack's faceplates, a bright smile lifting his lip components. (She didn't quite understand why she bothered noting that - this was his default expression, after all.)

"What do you mean, _last minute_?"

"I mean, sweet one, that this is the last minute call for drinks. See, a potential customer gave me a ring just a minute ago - completely lost, poor thing. Must be his first time in Kaon."

"How'd he know to call you if this is his first time here?" Road Rage didn't bother to disguise his disbelief. And honestly, Calibrate could understand why. Blackjack wasn't exactly known for his honesty.

"You know - I don't actually know how to answer that. He just rung me up - must've heard about the Alibi somewhere. I reckon my little hole in the wall is garnering up quite the rep over in Tarn." Blackjack served up one last cube of Engex to a near-comatose Roulette.

("That's your last one! Promise me!" Calibrate's expression was nothing less than firm.

Roulette grunted something unintelligible that passed for appeasement.)

"What makes you think he's from Tarn?" Road Rage took up the cue to ask, assuming the stranger in question must be a mech, considering how adamant Blackjack was on insisting it was a _he_.

"The accent - I suppose," he paused, deep in thought. "I dunno. I just assumed he must be a Tarner. Sure sounds like it. All smart words and emotionless tones - that's the designated calling card of a Tarner."

"No, it's not - " Calibrate began to protest, mostly for Biohazard's sake. (And also because it was rude to apply unpleasant stereotypes to an entire city.) Biohazard never caught on to the implied insult in Blackjack's words - he was too busy holding a wordless conversation with his mate over their bond.

(The only way Calibrate knew this was by looking at how the two were staring at each other.)

"Sure, sure. Listen, we'll keep talking later, agreed, sweet one?"

That being decided (without any input from the _sweet one_ in question), Blackjack ducked through the door to the pub and walked out onto the streets. Calibrate took a deep breath, and then pushed her cube away.

"I'm not feeling so well. I'm thinking I might - "

Before she could finish, the door to the pub opened once more and a flash of red and silver caught the youngling's attention. A familiar face, impassive but somehow unfriendly, emerged into the dimly lit pub.

That same face peered into the large room, unimpressed by what he saw, until his optics caught sight of a certain red-opticaled, navy-plated mech. When red met red, he froze, stock-still, and then he grinned, as if he had just spotted a precious gem amidst all the garbage in the world.

(Roulette found himself cursing his own rotten luck - for perhaps the thousandth time in his infernally long life.)

Said stranger slunk through the pub, crossing from the fair side entrance to the bar. Once he'd reached the lone mech - who took a long, weary drink from his Engex cube, as if to prepare himself for whatever was to come - he made himself at home beside him, taking the solitary stool without asking whether he was welcome.

(Knowing, perhaps, that he was not.)

"You're certainly a sight for sore optics," remarked the stranger with a familiar face. Calibrate had to augment the sensors decorating her audial receptors in order to catch part of Roulette's mumbled response.

" - say the same."

A snort from the stranger, who gave Roulette a long look. Something about that expression, something about the barely-restrained pity in his ember red optics when he looked at Calibrate's friend, made her angry. She could still clearly recall what Roulette had once told her, when she had given him a similar look.

 _Last thing I want is anyone's pity, child. I'd rather we both just pretended I was one of you. One of you newsparks. Much less on my plate, that way. Less reason to remember who I am and what I did, less reason to think about what I lost. Think you can promise that, little one? Think you can keep what I told you between us?_

And she had. She had promised not to say a word, and she had kept that promise.

To this day, no one but herself knew who, exactly, Roulette was.

Except, maybe, the stranger.

This was the first time she had seen anyone look at Roulette like he was an old friend. Or, judging from the scornful look in those malicious red optics, an old _enemy_.

"You look like slag, if you don't mind my saying so."

"I _do_ mind, but that's never stopped you before, has it, 'Screamer?"

Screamer? Did she know that from anywhere? Calibrate thought long and hard about it, but no matter which angle she looked at it from, she really had no idea who he was.

Until... it clicked.

"That's Starscream to you, Autobot."

"Roulette," corrected the other mech, optics darkening at the usage of the word. To him, it was almost like a swear. (After the sacrifices he had made for them, the Autobots were the last thing he wanted to hear about.)

Starscream! As in, Commander Starscream, second only to Megatron himself! He was infamous for his numerous war crimes, as well as his lust for power, the very same one that drove him to take charge of a rejuvenating Cybertron and appoint himself its Lord.

And here he was, in some dingy pub smack-dab in the middle of a nowhere city like Kaon.

(Well, Kaon was actually quite impressive, but that was beside the point!)

Now she understood why his finish was buffed to a shining luster, why he held his chin so high and why his optics were so arrogant as to ignore whatever lifeforms he found insignificant.

And why Roulette seemed like he would rather willingly wade into a smelting pit than to spend five more nanokliks in his presence. "Interesting," drawled the ex-Decepticon commander. "I had thought you Autobots were rather proud of your cause."

"Do not mention that name to me," warned the other, taking a drink from his Engex cube.

Then, the door to the pub swung open, and Blackjack strode in, expression akin to someone who had been honored with the presence of the Prime, himself. Calibrate opened her mouth to ask for another cube, ignoring the shame that welled up inside at the hypocrisy in asking for another when she wouldn't allow Roulette to do the same.

(Though in her defense, Roulette had already downed far too many cubes that evening.)

But she never got to say a word.

Blackjack wasn't alone. He walked into the pub accompanied by a dark-colored mech, one whose faceplates were obscured by a black visor, one marred by a long sliver of cracked glass.

It didn't seem to bother the mech, or even disfigure his sight. He was walking just fine (something she wondered about - didn't such dark glass blind him in this lighting?), albeit slowly, as if in a dream.

He took a seat at the far corner of the bar, away from prying optics (though he still attracted a few curious stares - he didn't look like the average mech walking down the streets of Kaon - what was even _with_ that visor?).

Blackjack busied himself with serving up a cube of the house's special, and then he handed it to the silent mech, who still had not spoken a single word. He issued no verbal gratitude - he just kept his helm lowered, as if deep in thought.

Something about the way he sat, how very lost he looked, how alone he must have felt - it stirred sympathy in her spark, and Calibrate found herself standing up from her stool. Road Rage gave her a puzzled look, one which she promptly ignored.

She took a step, then another, in the silent mech's direction, and it seemed he must've noticed, because he lifted his helm, and she could see her own reflection in the black glass as she approached him.

He watched her come closer, and then continued to watch as she gestured to the crack in his visor. The nearly undecipherable data that strolled across the screen. Flickering, light and dark, struggling to function.

"Would you mind if I asked to fix the screen?"

Her voice was small, a fact she hated about herself at that very moment, but he didn't seem to notice, or care. There was a moment of silence, in which she resisted the urge to squirm and retract her offer under his heavy gaze, and then he was nodding, and lifting his servo, fingers slim and curved around the rim of the visor, as he removed it from his face.

She barely caught a glance of the scarred metal of his faceplates before he had turned his helm, keeping it lowered as he took a sip of his cube. His servo was outstretched, offering the visor, and she took it, hesitating just for a moment before she took a seat on the stool beside him.

He didn't show her his faceplates, not once, as he drank from the cube. And she didn't ask about it. She kept her helm lowered and worked diligently on analyzing the damage. The codings were complex, the numbers dizzying, but after she got over the initial shock of having come across an ingenious craft of art, she put herself to the task of downloading the source code in order to best understand the strange dialect featured in the numerous storage disks the glass visor boasted.

If she was ever going to repair this malfunctioning data retrieval and storage tool, she would need to understand the language it was programmed to read. That way, she could delve into the blueprints and piece together whatever was missing.

(Applied engineering and nanotechnology, everybody! This was pretty basic stuff, even for an idiot like herself - or so Road Rage would claim, if he could read her mind at this very moment.)

There came a muffled sound from her left, and she raised her helm, puzzled, wondering whether it had been the strange mech or simply her imagination. Her dazzling blue optics met red, and she realized he was staring at her.

His expression was difficult to read into, poised as it was, but there was no mistaking the way his hand brushed over the back of her helm, almost in a gesture meant to be affectionate.

"I disagree. Your degree of knowledge in nanotechnology is impressive for one your age."

"In other words, it really amounts to nothing in the real world," was her sullen response, something she was accustomed to hearing from the cruel words of Road Rage when he was feeling _generous_.

"In comparison to what?"

She lowered her helm to finish downloading the source code. It registered as a system error - the distinguishing design in the characters was not acknowledged by the language association of Cybertron. It wasn't even cataloged into the Iaconian Database, which meant the language was either outlawed by circumstance, long forgotten by vorns in passing, or virtually nonexistent in terms of practicality.

"I don't suppose you can tell me what language the source code is written in?"

"Decepticon Regular."

Her helm snapped up, and she met his steady gaze.

"Are you serious?" Her expression was almost drained of confidence - how was she to fix something if she had never learned the language - and if it wasn't even available for rush order in downloading?

"As serious as ever."

She turned the visor over in her hands, admiring the balance of delicacy in craft with a firm foundation. It was a wonder the glass had been damaged, to begin with.

"I've got an idea," she said suddenly, and she meant it. But she would need to take this home with her in order for it to work out in her favor. She hesitated in asking, but one look at his expression confirmed that he already knew what she had in mind.

(Somehow.)

"Do what you must."

"How will I return this to you?" she held up the visor in question.

"We will meet once you have finished with the repairs. As you are the one working on its repairs, it is only customary to allow you to choose where and when."

She jumped up to her feet, startling a nearby client, though the mech before her barely shuttered an optic. "I know the perfect place!"

* * *

The air outside was clean, he noted. Cleaner than it had been in vorns.

Something about that struck him as wrong, as very, very wrong.

This was Kaon - but it was not his Kaon, not anymore.

The Kaon he had known was gone, sheltered from the common optic, used as the foundation for a stronger, cleaner, newly habitable city. And this talkative young femme seemed to adore her surroundings.

(He didn't have the heart to tell her what her beloved pub used to be.)

" - in the city."

He jolted out of his thoughts, and turned his helm.

"Is this your home?"

She peered down at the visor in her hand thoughtfully. He fought a painful ache of vulnerability, resisted the urge to snatch away the visor and hide away his face, so clear in view for anyone to lay their optics on.

He hoped he was not as easy to read as he feared. He was not accustomed to training his face to hide his weakness, considering that he had always hidden it from view.

"Only temporarily. Kaon is a beautiful city, but it's not where I want to live out my years. I mean, if I had made it to Iacon, I would be interning in Polyhex. Can you imagine? Me, in Polyhex?" she laughed, a sweet sound he decided he didn't despise. "But I didn't have the marks to make it in, so I got stuck in Tarn, instead. And so now, here I am."

She met his optics, and must've seen the confusion, because she hurried to explain away her complaint. "Not that Tarn is terrible, or anything, and like I said, Kaon's beautiful, really! It's just not my cube of Engex, if you get what I mean."

He did. Sometimes it was difficult to admit that circumstances weren't going to allow for an easy ride to one's dream come true. After all, had Lord Megatron not waged a vicious civil war for thousands of vorns before coming to that same realization?

(And in the end, had he not failed to carry out his mission?)

(There went a dream, shattered.)

"Where are we going?" he decided to ask, when the silence had dragged on long enough.

Her expression brightened. (She was so expressive, he felt that tracing the pulses of her processor were unnecessary. He needn't dig into her mind to see what she was up to - she herself revealed her intentions quite clearly. It was a refreshing change of pace.)

"You've heard of the Well of Allsparks?"

He had only to give her a look to pull a laugh of self-derision from her.

"Of course, you have. Only an idiot wouldn't have." He didn't bother saying anything about this observation. She felt stupid enough, as it was. "The Well has sprouted many a vein throughout the cities and plains of Cybertron. One of those veins has sprouted here, in this very city. It's actually high on the level of tourist attractions - which is saying quite a lot, considering all there is to do here in Kaon!"

She stopped mid-pace before a large crowd of mechs and femmes, younglings spending personal time away on dates or lone outings, families with rowdy children, and a large gathering of mechs and femmes doused in ceremonial markings.

"Here it is!" she announced, and gestured to a large shrine that encircled a great pothole in the center of the city of Kaon. The tunnels below were dark, occasionally lighted up by a bright blue flame that seemed to erupt from the very core of Cybertron.

"Be careful!" she held out an arm, preventing him from stepping any closer. "Falling in could result in serious injury. Someone's even died here before, if what Road Rage says is true. The search and rescue team found only a huskless shell left behind. He says it was a sparkeater." Her voice dropped to nearly a whisper at the mention of the fabled nightmare of Cybertron.

"Is there a reason you brought me to this place of danger?"

He would be lying if he said he wasn't amused by this show of unpredictable enthusiasm for the macabre. She beamed at him, an odd sight before the place of a grisly (rumored) death.

"It is not merely a place of danger, my friend." The term of affection threw him off-kilter for a split second. _Friend_? She hurried on before he could say anything to that. "This is a place of birth, of new life. To encourage the spreading of new life throughout the wasteland that Cybertron had become, they say that the Prime spoke with the planetformer we live on and asked him to extend the Well to several locations, so that it may never again be clogged up in one place and so that new life would always exist to broaden the minds of the old. They think this will help prevent another civil war from breaking out, if it can help people to understand each other by granting every city new life instead of leaving most cities out of the miracle of birth. This vein," she pointed out the gaping pothole of tunnels and darkness, "is proof of that promise. From here emerges a newspark every so often to join the world of the living, just as an old spark is extinguished somewhere in this vast universe to rejoin the Well. For every death there is life, and vice versa."

"Till all are one," he spoke, voice soft and unassuming. The words were familiar, but they seemed to mean something to the mech. She decided it was best not to ask.

"So, I thought it was only fitting. If we're going to meet anywhere while I finish repairing your visor, it should be in a place of opportunity and hope. Here."

She stomped her foot to give real meaning to the statement.

"Hope..." he murmured, and then held out his servo. "I accept your proposal."

"So serious," she said with a smile, and accepted the gesture with a firm shake of her own servo.

She caught his directed stare towards the long procession of bots in their ceremonial paintings.

"Those people are here to celebrate the birth of a newspark to a bonded pair. The pair undergo trials of the spark in order to ensure the safety of the sparkling in forming a bond and imprinting on them as its carriers. Once they've finished, this is their last step - accepting the token of life from Primus through the forging of a newspark."

There was a flash of voices in his mind, of the undying trust in the optics of his mini-cassette companions. "What if there is a torn bond in the recipient?"

She lifted her helm to look at him directly. "They were running a project earlier in the stellar cycle to see if it was possible that a new bond could replace an old one without causing damage to either party. I never did read about the results of that experiment."

"I suppose that is something you will have to recount to me in the afternoon."

It took her a moment to decode his puzzling pattern of speech, but once she understood that he intended for there to be a second meeting before she finished with the repairs, she couldn't help the smile that stole its way across her lip components.

Her servo took hold of his, and he lowered his helm to meet her warm gaze.

"I suppose it is," she grinned. "By the by, I don't suppose I told you my designation just yet?"

"Calibrate."

Her optics shuttered in astonishment. "What, but how - "

"I have a gift." She could have sworn she saw the barest hint of a smile flicker across his face.

"Well, then," she murmured, thoroughly upset by the injustice of it all.

"I am Soundwave."

Her optics glazed over the chipped painting of an old coat of arms, a memory from the past.

One he took notice of her noticing.

Yet, despite his caution, she didn't appear to mind, or even to know what it meant.

"I'm honored to meet you."

Or did she know, after all?

He wasn't picking up any resentment from her train of thought, so he left the mystery at that.

"Likewise." And he almost fooled himself into believing his own words.

* * *

An unseen pair of optics watched, carefully, as the lightly-hued psychotherapist made his way back to the office he operated in. His humming, an old Cybertronian song that predated the war, one she had not heard in quite some time, was lifted by the wind and deposited into her audial receptors. She took a whiff, could almost taste his bright spark, thrumming in time with the tune of his song, on her glossa.

And Polyhex couldn't help herself : she laughed.

It would only be a matter of time before she tracked down her old _colleagues_.

And until then, she was back in the game, and boy, did it smell terrific.

She couldn't wait to sink her denta into his writhing sparkchamber - but she had to exercise caution. Caution, and patience. An exemplary hunter did not lose composure, as an old friend had taught her.

It would not be difficult to get him alone, and once she was finished making a meal for herself out of that beautifully-hued mech, she would access his core of data and know exactly what he knew. And she would find and bring together her old teammates.

Whether they wanted to be return or not, they had work to do.

(Thus was her Lord's order.)

And boy, did she live to _serve_.


	5. 03: Dangers to Face

"Let me not pray to be sheltered from dangers,

but to be fearless in facing them."

\- Rabindranath Tagore, _Collected Poems and Plays of Rabindranath Tagore_

 _Being as busy as I usually find myself with writing and editing out new chapters for this installment, as well as the fact that I do have preparations coming up for the new semester (and I still happen to be working on my one-hit wonders with various TF characters), I figured the best way to respond to my reviews is to give a shout-out pre-chapter. I hope this system works! (It also means you're forced to listen to my pre-chapter ramblings, lol.)_

 _Without further ado - !_

 _Dreadnought Mattherious: I am so glad to hear that my idea wasn't a recycled one. Lol. I always fear that one day someone's going to tell me that my story wasn't unique, or that I copied someone else. (Hopefully no one's rude enough to actually do that, lol. Thank goodness for the lack of real-life Whirls.) I'm also kind of nervous about the way I've decided to characterize Tarn, so hearing that I'm doing well so far, it boosts my confidence about the series. Unfortunately, Tarn doesn't make so many appearances towards the beginning of the series, but once I really get the ball rolling, he'll be making many more appearances. I hope you enjoy what I do with him (and the rest of the Justice Division) - after all, they're not meant to know peace, ey?_

 _the Real Clair: Shhh, don't tell anyone about Polyhex! That's supposed to be a secret! Lol. But yes. I do hope she will be a f****** hit. Winky face, winky face._

 _Xemnass: Thank you, love! It's a good thing you loved Soundwave, because you'll be seeing a lot more of him in this series. Of course, it will probably be new to see what I plan to do with him. I think it's time Soundwave showed the world what he could do when he wasn't following a disillusioned madman. And as for Tarn, since it seems he's a big hit, I will try hard not to disappoint with the next session._

* * *

"What convinced you to come back?"

The fluorescent lighting brought out the blue in her optics, but still, in this lighting, he could see nothing but his own reflection in those haunting depths. There was no fear, nothing that hinted at any threat he might or might not have issued when they last met.

It was as if she didn't recall what he had told her. And somehow, thinking that - it irked him.

Was he nothing to her? Was he a child giving her the cold shoulder because she had refused to react the way he desired? He would not be the person she thought he was.

And if she wanted to talk, then that was what they would do.

(He seriously considered that perhaps she truly knew nothing of his former identity. No one who had ever heard of him would _encourage_ him to speak. Unless there was a death wish involved.)

"I did not."

Her optics lifted from the table, meeting his. There was a question burning in those pools, but she never asked. Instead, she distracted him with a statement.

"I'm not sure I understand."

He shifted. "Why did you meet with me in a different room? Did you think I would not remember, or notice?" He raised a dark-plated hand, pointing out the barren walls, and ignoring the burning underneath his plating. It was incredible, really, that he was forced to continue reminding himself not to expose his weakness in her presence.

For a moment, she said nothing. He tuned his audial receptors manually, with a flicker of his wrist, the barest brush of a finger. The gentle thrumming of a calm spark soothed him, eased the tension out of his coiled wiring. If he ever got around to putting a stopper in her pulse, he would make certain to enjoy the lullaby of her sparkbeat, beforehand.

(Perhaps he might memorize the thrumming rhythm.)

(There was something about the pattern he could set apart from all the sparks of his past. Something he couldn't quite put his finger on. Something that really left an impression on him. He quite enjoyed listening to it, paired with her even breathing. Not that she would ever be brought to awareness of this fact.)

"I was advised that a window might discourage my clients from speaking freely."

He reclined back into his seat, content to thrum his fingers against the arm of his new seat, something he supposed must have replaced the one he broke. The clicks of his fingers matched those of her spark, not that she would know. It was thrilling to keep in mind that she hadn't the faintest idea of the danger surrounding her at this very moment in time.

It reminded him who held the real power here, and suddenly, everything was okay, again.

He didn't mind that when she looked at him, she did so with pity.

(Though due to the emptiness in her optics, he could never be too certain of this.)

"Is that the extent of our relationship?" his voice had dropped to a low rumble, almost a purr. "I am your client, doctor? Are we not friends, if I am encouraged to place my faith in you?"

"I hadn't come to the conclusion that you desired any sort of relationship with me."

Her optics shuttered, and then her lips tugged into a smile, one that beguiled him.

Such a display of good humor was not something he had expected from a therapist of her caliber. Mostly due to her alignment with those infuriatingly close-minded Autobots.

"And if I do?" his tone had not changed. Now, he was simply playing a game, entertaining himself. Hoping she would indulge him. Not many could match his game of wit. (Especially since not many could withstand any prolonged period of conversation with the ex-Decepticon.)

"I suppose I should inform you that it would be dubiously inappropriate of me to pursue such an unprofessional relationship with one of my clients," she all but reminded him, something he responded to with the barest hint of a laugh.

"Oh, I'm well aware of that, my good doctor. I only meant to tease you. You are so very charming that I'm afraid I could not help myself."

There was a twinkle of mirth in her optics, an observation he found endearing.

"Yes, well, as sorry as I am to hear that it was all a well-intentioned joke, I am afraid that we do have to get to business, now. If I'm ever to be of any aide to you, I do have to ask you to really place some trust in me." Her optics were serious, now, her expression meaningful.

He paused. "Trust? You want me to trust you? Who is to say it won't be a mistake I come to deeply regret?" She reached across the table, pausing momentarily when he stiffened.

When he made no other move to stop her, her fingers found his, enveloping his servo in a gentle squeeze. There was a jolt of warmth that shot up his arm, through his wiring, and his own spark did the most curious little jig of befuddlement.

For the first time in a long, long time, since he had observed those life-shattering words of Lord Megatron, he felt nervous. Uncertain. Hesitant.

And he despised it, loathed himself for his weakness.

This program would see the end of him. This therapist would be the one to cause that end.

He was certain of that, now. (And it seemed to be the only thing he knew for certain, now.)

But it was not written in stone that he would not bring her crashing down with him.

His optics lowered, and he observed how perfectly her fingers seem to fit around his, how warm her grip felt, how something in his processor whispered to hang on as tightly as he could, while the rest of his mind screamed to let go before it was too late.

His spark was strangely silent. He could not hear it, no matter how he tried. This fact terrified him. He tuned out the rest of the world, made certain that his audial receptors caught nothing from around him. And then, as sure as he breathed, he heard it.

The quick pulsating, the loud beating, of his spark. As if it were struggling to go on.

He acquainted this very same sound with fear. He had heard it only once before - when Nickel had met his optics from outside his fueling capsule, the way her wide optics had made his spark skip a few pulses, the tears drying on her faceplates that forced him to realize how big the cause was, how it had extended beyond Lord Megatron and himself and everyone else involved.

How it was more than just a person, or people. How it was a dream that must be realized, no matter the consequences. He had felt fear, fear that he would not be enough to see it through to the end, and this same fear, it was back.

He had always told himself _never again_ , never again would he allow himself to feel afraid, or uncertain. But it was as if he had never made any such promise. When he listened to his sparkbeat, when he met those bright blue optics with his own, it was difficult to remember what it felt like to be in control of himself.

Then, he saw it. He hadn't been the only one to feel the pulse from her fingers.

There was the barest hint of emotion, and suddenly, he wasn't looking at a reflection, anymore. He was seeing a terror he had never known he could cause in her optics, but she didn't let go.

She gave him another squeeze, and then she spoke, "I will not let you down, Tarn. I will never let you down. That much, I can promise for certain."

"Do not make a promise you cannot keep."

He drew back, and stood where he was, towering over her, looking down into her clear optics.

The reflection was back. Whatever vulnerability had existed, it was gone just as suddenly as it had come. For the first time, he had a worrying revelation.

This was someone he wasn't certain he could bring to her knees.

Something about her expression angered him, suddenly. The cold swept back into his circuits, though his grip felt empty without her touch. "Your spark is very calm, doctor."

(And it was true. Though he didn't feel it in himself to elaborate.)

"What?" her voice was a murmur, confusion evident in her optics.

He realized it then - she really _didn't_ know who he was.

And a smile graced his lip components.

"I would advise you to keep a close watch on your spark. It is a weak little thing, the spark, and sometimes, it just," he paused, and his gaze swept over her figure, appreciating the visible tremble he caught in her stabilizing servos. "Stops."

That being said, he saw his own way out. Leaving behind a very frantic sparkbeat.

Something he found he enjoyed more than its usual lulling rhythm.

And he could almost swear (a grin twisted his expression at the sound) that he heard a hitch in her breath, and just as he had predicted, her spark stopped, if only for a moment.

What a _weak little thing_ , indeed.

* * *

The cream-colored mech was busy working on cataloging all the files from his last session when his colleague walked into the room, a whole cycle after her last client had left.

(Said client had paused to ask him how he was, and to remark on the amazing progress of the reconstruction of Kaon. Then, he had left without so much as a glance back, though Rung could hear the smile in his voice.)

And in came Clandestine, a cycle later. Her expression was careful, controlled, but he could see the lingering doubt in her optics. And the fear, the telltale tension, when he spoke up, as though she had been stuck in her own mind, without realizing she wasn't alone.

"How was your second session with him?"

She sighed, and he assumed that must've been the only answer he would get, because then she just made her way to her desk without a single word. He watched her pull the recorder from her bag and place it down beside her data pad, and then she sat, all at once, and placed her helm in her servos. As if nursing a helm-ache.

At last, she spoke. "I'm feeling a bit under the weather, so if you don't mind, I would just rather pretend he doesn't exist. At least, for now. Is that alright with you?"

What could he do but respect her wishes?

* * *

Several cycles passed by, the two of them alternating between sessions to handle their long list of clients, and then, at least, came a lull period. The last session of the day belonged to Rung, and it would take place three cycles from now.

Then, they could call it a day and close down the office.

The door to the office opened, and in came an unfamiliar face.

Helm decorated in a similar fashion to those of the mechs who guarded the new Senate of Polyhex, horns curved like those of a ram, and ruby red optics holding the smug light of someone who was holding a secret.

Her smile was a loaded gun, sly, dangerous.

(Clandestine didn't know it at the time, but she would later come to trust this stranger with her life.) Right now, the psychotherapist only quirked a single optic ridge.

"Good afternoon, doctor," the stranger all but purred. (Neither knew whether she was talking to the mech or the femme.) "I was referred here by my superiors. Seems to me they believe I could do with a session or two of your time."

Rung was the first to act, since Clandestine was still trying to work out who she had been talking to. "For that, we're going to need you to fill out a form. Nothing too personal - just the basics. Contact numbers, address, occupation, designation - and once you hand us your form, we'll hand it in to processing to see whether you truly require the services of the Program."

"If you don't, you'll be referred to another office which accepts clients who don't take part in the Program," Clandestine added, to ensure that there were no misunderstandings or confusions on the stranger's part.

"Just for our personal records, what is your designation?"

A smile curved along her lip components. "Mantadea."

 _Like the organic insect_ , the therapist noted mentally.

Clandestine watched as Rung dug up the necessary files, downloading them onto a single data pad, and handing it to the self-professed Mantadea. Said femme took it with no small amount of graciousness, and made her way to one of the many empty seats in the lounge room, directly before their desks.

The therapist knew the extensive logwork that came with their Program's application process, so she knew this would take some time. And just like that, in came another stranger. Well, not so much a stranger as someone Clandestine hadn't expected to come into this part of the hospital. He worked with Calibrate as an intern - she had spotted the two of them sharing a table numerous times before during their break hours.

His optics - red as the organic lifesource - glittered as he took a few steps toward her desk.

"Are you here to sign an application form for the Program?" she took the liberty of asking, seeing as how Rung hadn't noticed his entrance. He was currently preoccupied with filing a report for his last session.

The red-opticaled mech said something that didn't quite translate. She hated to ask, but -

"Pardon?"

There was an audible sigh, a shifting of weight from one pede to the other, and then, in very strained Neocybex, "Yes. I come to sign form for program. Warn - I won't give easy time."

 _Translation - he was forced into applying by superiors who don't think he can handle his own. Thus, making my duty of care much more difficult, considering he doesn't look to be one who wishes to cooperate with something he never wanted._

By this point in time, Rung had looked up from his files, thoroughly perplexed. She didn't give him enough time to say anything to the stranger. "In that case, there you are." She handed him a similar data pad to the one Rung had given Mantadea - with exactly the same forms.

The strange mech took the pad and made his way to one of the empty seats, muttering under his breath in that same strange language from before. She shot Rung a look of apprehension, but he didn't bother to enlighten her - he only smiled, and turned back to his files.

She huffed, but said nothing. Fine - two could play at that game.

* * *

Mantadea gave the two therapists a quirk of the lips, something Clandestine took for a smile, and a waving of her thin fingers, which she took as a _goodbye_. Then, she followed in the footsteps of the mech with a glower for a stare, and left through the very door she had come in.

A few moments of silence passed, during which Clandestine took the time to wonder if it was indeed possible for the spark to simply stop pulsing (she doubted it - highly improbable - no way that was a legitimate event that could take place), and then Rung lifted his head, optics obscured by those round lenses of his but expression unmistakable.

He appeared to be feeling apologetic - which meant he was about to ask her for a favor.

"Clandestine, do you mind - ?"

"No, no, of course not." She stood, stretching out her sore circuitry and coiled limbs, before collecting both data pads and making her way towards the door. "While I'm out, I plan to stop by the canteen for a cube. Would you like me to bring you one, as well?"

"Yes, thank you."

* * *

The psychotherapist watched his longtime colleague leave the office, and he breathed out in relief. Rodimus had been badgering him lately about updating the Station with the news of who had applied for the Program, but he could hardly check the lists if Clandestine was here.

She had not witnessed the danger that several individuals posed to society - she would not understand why he was breaking protocol without receiving a warrant, first. And she would most certainly not allow him to carry out his task. She had said it, herself - she would sooner destroy her files than betray the trust of her clients.

He logged into the system's database, making sure to use the access code to unlock Clandestine's personal clientele - now all he needed was to download the information, and his part in this dodgy request would be done. Where was that memory stick?

He had just dropped to his knees to check if he had dropped the thin chip when he caught sight of an unfamiliar pair of pedes through the gap under his desk. He restrained a quiet gasp, and stood up as quickly as possible, uncertain whether he wanted a stranger to catch him in the midst of suspicious activity.

She was a femme, but not the one from before. Not Mantadea (if he was correct?).

"Hello," she spoke, expression unreadable. He felt the energon rush to his faceplates - did she know what he was doing, after all? Had he been caught red-handed? (No - if he started to think like that, he would wind up like Red Alert.)

Her optics flashed, and he shifted his weight from one pede to the other.

"Hello," he hoped his voice was steadier than he felt. "Do you need an application form - ?"

"No," she interjected, tone pleasant.

"Forgive me if I must say so, but this office does not handle free consultations. You must be registered as a client of the Program to receive a session here."

She stayed silent. The air was growing colder with every second that passed.

Suddenly, he felt more than slightly uncomfortable. He felt a trill of something familiar - something he hadn't felt since unboarding the _Lost Light_ \- he felt fear.

"Who are you?"

He forgot to be polite - something about her expression was unnerving enough to forgo his manners. She was watching him with a similar expression to the creature that had aimed to devour him so long ago. Her optics were hungry, her grin unfriendly.

"Do you believe in second chances, doctor?"

His mouth was dry - he didn't know what to say. She didn't wait for an answer - he suspected she must be goading him. "Can you answer a question for me?"

"Of course - yes."

Her grin widened, if possible, and she took a step closer. His optics flickered to her clawed servos - she was running one of her impossibly sharp talons over the glass of his desk. There was a horrible _screech_ , like the last breath of a scraplet.

He shuddered - and felt the tremble in his very spinal chord.

"Whatever happened to the Decepticon Justice Division?"

He swallowed (why did she want to know about them - what connection could she possibly have to notorious murderers?), but his expression was firm.

(He hoped.)

"That is, unfortunately, the one question I cannot answer."

(It went against policy - their whereabouts and fates were between them and their therapist. Who was, coincidentally, not himself, but his colleague. Or, at least, 2/5ths of them. He hadn't the faintest clue where the other three were - no, that was a lie. Vos had come to their office on that very day - he had been the one speaking in Cybertron's oldest tongue - the _Primal Vernacular._ It was a pity he still had yet to learn sufficient Neocybex.)

"Mm," she hummed, taking one step, then another, then another, so that she was beginning to circle his desk, optics never leaving his. He could feel his tanks churning - and his energon circuits running cold. (Was it too late to call for help? Would anyone even hear him through that thick glass?) "Tell me, how many members were there? I can't quite seem to recall."

"Four?" he guessed, and then corrected himself, hastily. "Five." He didn't know why it was so important to get it right - but a voice inside his processor was whispering that it might heighten his chances of survival. (You never know what someone's berserk button might be - getting the facts wrong might be hers.)

She stopped, inches from his face, claws seizing and digging into the wiring in his arm, painful, difficult to shake. "Everyone deserves a second chance." Her voice was soft, soothing, and then her grip was gone.

And so was she.

His optics traced the scarred metal she had left behind along his forearm, and he mused, dazedly, at the fact that he had sounded deceptively calm for a mech terrified for his life.

"Data pads are in - I don't know how long it will take to process, but we should have the results in soon enough. Though I do have to wonder, what - Rung? Rung, did something happen? Rung?"

His train of thought crashed abruptly, and he turned to face his colleague, her expression the picture of concern. Her optics were locked onto the indentations in the glass surface of his workspace, and then they caught sight of the similar indentations into his arm paneling.

"I just had the strangest conversation - "

There was the loud shattering of glass, silence, and then,

"Primus fraggit, Whirl! Couldn't you have just opened the door like a normal person?"

* * *

Soon after Clandestine had left the room (to find something to clean up the mess Whirl had made of their glass door), the mono-opticaled mech turned to Rung and gestured towards his colleague's desk with a click of his claws.

"May I?"

"This is a serious task, Whirl. I need you to remember why I asked you to do it - "

"Because I wouldn't care to explain myself if I were caught going through confidential files? Because it's expected of me to break that sort of rule? Because you would have a lot of explaining to do if she caught you red-handed?"

Rung's expression didn't change.

"Come on - relax, doctor! This is like pie to me - or however the saying goes."

"Easy as pie?" muttered the psychotherapist.

"That, that." The ex-Wrecker waved him off, and circled the femme's desk, sticking the tip of one of his claws into the narrow opening containing her files and audio logs. There was an audible _click_ , and then he was pulling out the bottom of the desk, and sifting through pads.

"Not this, not this, _definitely_ not _that_ \- though I _am_ curious to know why she's keeping this in a professional workplace," he muttered to himself as he discarded pad after pad. Rung snuck a peak, and the other mech laughed, an unfriendly sound that made him feel ridiculous as soon as he had heard it.

"Made ya look!"

"Just - just try not to take too long. I know you wouldn't feel embarrassed being caught looking through her things, but I'd rather not be forced to explain why I didn't do anything to stop you."

"Whatever happened to honesty, doctor?" hummed Whirl in response. "Why didn't you just ask to borrow her list?"

"Because we have an obligation to our clientele - she is performing her just duty. I, unfortunately, find myself at a moral dilemma - the Station has caught onto some foul play amongst the ranks of the ex-Decepticons. They were concerned about the population of potentially dangerous Veterans among the civilians - I handed over my list. But she has already refused, despite knowing that it's for the sake of the welfare of everyone she and I both care about. So, I am taking matters into my own hands."

"By copying her list into your files?"

"Precisely."

"And why did you have me do something you yourself could do?" Whirl made optic-contact with the lightly-hued therapist. "I'm sure you know how to handle a lock, Wrung."

"It's Rung," he corrected, automatically, and then, "And I tried. I just - I wasn't fast enough." He was silent for a moment. "She distracted me."

"Dezzy did? Come now - she's a babe, but I doubt any one femme is enough to knock you off course." Whirl would have grinned if he could - and if it would have been visible enough to appreciate.

"No, not Dez - Clandestine," he corrected himself. "A stranger. She came in asking about - actually, I'm not really certain what it was she wanted."

(That statement could not have been truer.)

"Whirl!"

Both therapist and ex-Wrecker spun.

"What in the holy light of Primus above do you think you're doing? Those are my personal files - whole logs and confidential data. Do you not understand the concept of _off-limits_?"

Clandestine was angry - that much was obvious. Whirl retracted his claws, gave a huff of disappointment (because he hadn't been quick enough, not because he was caught), and then he left without another word. Her expression was one of surprise, but it held a hint of indignation.

"Why didn't you say anything? You know how dangerous it is to let Whirl go digging around in my files! The last time he did that - he threatened one of my clients with his worst fear. For the kicks." She was exasperated, and working quickly to place everything back to where it belonged. He cursed his rotten luck - the second attempt? Failed.

Hopefully, the third time would be the charm.

(Or however that saying went.)

* * *

"What are you reading?"

Just on time.

"Rodimus, hello." She didn't bother to meet his optics. "I don't remember inviting you in."

"Rung did. And anyways - I've got a session. With Rung."

She looked up at him, optics narrowed in suspicion. "I could have assumed as much on my own without the emphasis." She didn't believe his lie for a second. No, the real question was: What was he _really_ doing here?

"What are you reading?" he asked again, expression defiant, blue optics presenting a nonverbal challenge. "You seem pretty into it."

"That's because I am. Did I give that away so easily?" she quipped.

"Sarcasm doesn't look cute on you, doc."

"Funny - just the answer to a question I never asked."

His blue optics burned with resentment. "It wouldn't kill you just to make a little small talk, Dezzy." There was something about the way he said her name - she hated it. He didn't have any right to call her that - they weren't even on speaking terms.

"You do not reserve the right to call me that - and I am in no mood to make small talk with an insufferable brat like yourself." Her optics were narrowed, and he barked out a scathing laugh.

"Come on, can we not talk once without you barking at me," he paused, servos planted firmly on the edges of her desk as he leaned in close, expression brazen, smug. "Dezzy?"

"Oh, No, He Didn't."

His expression scrunched up in befuddlement, and she offered a smug look of her own.

"What? Sparkeater caught your glossa, Prime?"

"I'm not Prime, anymore, and you know it. That was a low blow," he spoke through gritted denta, before straightening up and sighing, almost as if to lament their incompatibility. "Now, what was that last bit?"

"The name of the article, numbnuts."

"The issue about - " he was alarmed.

"Yes." She gave him a smile, deceptively sweet. "The one about the _Lost Light_ \- "

Quick as a flash, he had slapped the data pad out of her servo, and it crashed into the ceiling, before falling, shards of broken glass following its descent, down to the floor. The floor Clandestine had spent two whole cycles sweeping meticulously after the incident with Whirl.

Words could not describe her anger.

But before she could manage a single word, having jumped up to her feet and placed both servos on her hips, he hastened to explain himself, "I'd rather have you get to know me, the _real_ me, the me that I am now, than to have you attribute my past mistakes to who I am as a person."

Words escaped her.

She nodded, mutely. He shot her a dazzling grin, and spun on the heel of his pede to address Rung, who had just come in from his session with his last patient of the day.

(A very triumphant-looking Whiplash who had left a bit of color in Rung's faceplates - Primus only knew what the shameless ex-Decepticon had said to the therapist to get a visible reaction out of him.)

She couldn't quite come to terms with the fact that Rodimus had just _smiled_ at her after making a mess of her data pad (and of the clinic's floor) - so instead, she chose not to think about it. But the therapist did sigh - it was going to take another cycle to clean up this _new_ mess.

(And while she was at it, maybe she could clear out the odd sensation in her spark that lingered after Rodimus had smiled at her, something she would never dare admit aloud to another person.)

* * *

"Is he here?"

The hint of a smile flitted across the older femme's lips.

"Yes."

"The lab, right?"

"M-hm."

Calibrate gave her a chipper grin, and crossed the threshold into the cozy little home that Biohazard and Quicksilver shared. It was even set across the street from the fountain in the square - a perfect home, indeed.

And with the love radiant between the reporter and her conjunx endura, it truly felt like one.

(Calibrate didn't remember the people who had taken her in from the well - she supposed she should feel sad about this, but she had already replaced those faded faceplates in her processor with the familiar ones of Quicksilver and Biohazard. They felt like people she could rely on to always be there - to always smile and love and remind her that everything was okay when the whole world was falling apart.)

The staircase leading down into Biohazard's lab was steep, and one or two steps were missing, so she had to be careful, but once she'd stepped through the doorway into the large, cavernous room, she was struck by awe.

It was truly amazing how much he could accomplish with his limited materials.

(Of course, most of his projects ended in failure - either because no one was willing to test it out, so he didn't have any reliable safety measures in place, or because he had grown impatient and hurried the process, damaging the foundation of his projects.)

"Bio!" she called out, and he turned, protective lenses held over his optics as he placed a single finger down on a bright blue wire. (To hold it in place, no doubt.)

"Calibrate? Did - was that today?" he scratched the back of his helm absently, or tried to, before Quicksilver had crossed the room towards him in a flash of golden biolights. She held his servo away from his head, reminding him gently of the needles he had injected into his fingertips.

("That surely would have been a disaster.")

"Oops," he laughed, and then turned to face the youngling. "Was our little meeting today, then, sweetspark?" She nodded her helm, and he sighed, placing the welding torch down with his other hand. (His mate was quick to turn it off before it burned a hole right through his workstation.)

"Come. I have something to show you, remember?"

He led the way through the darkened side of the room, fussing over a blown transformer.

"Remind me to get a new one, light of my spark," he noted aloud to his mate, whom smiled in response, affection coating her teasing response.

"You already have, Bio. It's upstairs in the supply closet - should I get it?"

He didn't have to open his mouth before she was gone, a blaze of gold the only trail she left behind. He offered the younger femme a grin, and gestured towards one of the tables, an odd device catching her optics.

"What's that?"

"That, my dear, is what I wanted you to see. This is the mnemo patch - its actual name is far too long for anyone to bother remembering." He appeared sheepish about this fact - which brought to mind why on Cybertron he would name his invention something he himself knew wouldn't be remembered.

(She didn't bother asking - no doubt, it would incite some overly-complex explanation she would grow weary of after the first five cycles.)

"Amazing - " she paused, thinking hard. "Actually, what does it do?"

"It is similar in function to the cortical psychic patch, a work of genius rendered possible by Senator Shockwave - bless his spark."

"What does it do?" she repeated.

He sighed, visibly deflating. "It - I borrowed the idea from the human concept of lobotomy, a neurosurgical procedure, or psychosurgery, if you will. In the capable servos of a practising mnemosurgeon, one can isolate and encrypt certain particles of memory in the memory data core of a CPU processor. Of course, one would have to ensure that the subject is not conscious, or else there would be horrific pain to pay. Once locked on to the memory particle, a virus is injected that encrypts and locks down the unwanted memory. The procedure is lengthy, depending on the quantity of memory particles in question."

She blinked. "Right. Sorry, I didn't get any of that."

He eyed her, expression exasperated. "Basically, it's a device to get rid of unwanted memories, Calibrate. I hope to help countless Veterans adjust to a very difficult life by aiding them in rooting out problematic memories and with just one source code - wiping clean their slates and starting anew!"

"Amazing!" she cheered. "Is it done?"

"Not quite!" The mood abruptly died. His expression was serious. "I still need to run a few more tests. Preferably on non-sentient beings. However, I do have a favor to ask of you."

He sifted through a pile of data pads, and handed a few thin sheets. "Flyers. Posters. Soon enough, I will be required to run trials on totally-sentient beings. The ideal test subject would be a volunteer - a Veteran. Would it be too much of me to ask you to help me in posting up these announcements? I'm going to be asking for volunteers soon, and I have a briefing session coming up next week. But for now, this will do." He paused, optics meeting hers, a hopeful blue light. "Please?"

"Of course! You don't even have to ask me twice!" she chirped, taking hold of the flyers and giving him a merry salute. "Good luck on your work!"

He thanked her graciously, and ushered her out. "I wouldn't want that precious face of yours to wind up collateral damage, now, would I?"

She passed by Quicksilver on her way down, who was struggling with the transformer.

"Don't mind me," quipped the other femme, and Calibrate shot her an apologetic look.

"See you guys at the Alibi!"

"Goodbye - for now," responded her dear friend, and she could hear Biohazard yelling something similar from below. Either that, or it could have been, "Duck for cover - now!"

(It was probably the latter - there was a deafening explosion that rocked the little home on its hinges. Calibrate was suddenly glad she hadn't accepted their offer to move in.)

* * *

She reached the hospital in no time (at all - maybe just a cycle - those flyers were heavier than they looked!), and then she set to work right away in posting them up on every available flat surface. (Mostly because she had seen numerous Veterans coming in and out of the hospital - if Biohazard was looking for volunteers amongst the Veterans, this was one of the best places to advertise.)

She was posting up the fifth flyer when she was intercepted by her superior, the doctor who was mentoring her group. His cherry red paintjob was hard to miss. "Calibrate, right?"

"Yes, Doctor Knock Out." She paused, turning to face him with a bright smile. "Is something wrong?"

He was examining the flyer she had just posted (with great difficulty).

"What is this?"

"Oh - a friend of mine, Biohazard, he asked me to post up these flyers for volunteers. For his new project," she clarified. He hummed, a noise of curiosity.

"Biohazard? The very same mech who once razed his own lab to the ground?"

"Er - no, you must be thinking of a different Biohazard."

She laughed. He didn't. She coughed.

"Um, am I in trouble? Am I not allowed to post these up?"

"What is this project's goal, exactly?"

"Oh!" she brightened up. "It's going to help get rid of unwanted memories so that the Veterans can really have a clean slate."

"Is that so?" he tilted his helm in question, red optics boring into hers.

He appeared vaguely disapproving. She didn't understand why. What Biohazard was doing - it was a service! To everyone who had ever wanted to escape the screams in their helms and the nightmares in their recharge cycles.

(That's what he had meant, she assumed.)

"Yes."

"Tell me, have you heard of shadowplay?"

"Shadowplay? Yes. It was an archaic procedure, yes? Back before the war?" her optical ridges were furrowed. What did Shadowplay have to do with -

Oh. Oooooh. Oh, no, dear Primus, he couldn't think - ?

"It's not Shadowplay!" she blurted. He rose an optical ridge.

"Isn't it?"

"No, it isn't!" Her expression was defiant. How could he even assume - ? Biohazard wasn't capable of such cruelty! He was a good mech, really! That time he went to the Station had been a mistake...!

"It's meant to help people, not control them, not erase who they are! It's to give them a second chance to be the person they want to be, and that they could be, if their nightmares weren't clouding their way! Biohazard isn't a monster - he would never want to destroy anyone like that."

He appeared unconvinced, but he didn't press the issue.

"No one is being forced to do it," she said, voice small.

He turned on his pede, glancing down at a data pad in his servo.

"Yet."

* * *

The lights of the Alibi were dim when Calibrate ordered her third round of Engex.

She ignored the pointedly concerned looks from Tailgate in his booth with Cyclonus.

She didn't want to talk - not after the unspoken accusation she had witnessed throughout the rest of the day on numerous people's faces. All she had to do was hold up a flyer and they were all thinking it. They didn't say, but she could see it in their faceplates, in the doubt and suspicion in their optics. The distrust in their frowns.

 _Shadowplay_.

They all thought Biohazard was capable of _Shadowplay_.

If only they knew him - they would never dare think such horrible things if they knew him.

"Calibrate," came a murmur from her left. She jumped, maybe a foot in the air, startled, and turned her helm. Steady red optics caught her wide-opticaled gaze.

"Road Rage - ?"

"I can't stick around long," he interjected, waving off Blackjack, who was holding up a cube of Engex in question, "so I'm only going to say this once. I need you to meet me outside the pub tomorrow morning. Early - as early as possible. Let's say, five, right when the sun is beginning to rise over Kaon."

"What - why?" she sputtered, confusion evident in her slightly intoxicated state.

He leaned closer, optics narrowed, and took a single whiff. "Slag it, Cali, I need you to be coherent for this - " he broke off, agitated, and whipped out a data pad. He made some quick notes, and then pulled open one of her subports, running along her chasis. He dropped it in, and closed it, with a single pat.

"I have something to show you," he whispered, making certain that no one (especially not a curious Blackjack) would overhear. "So try not to drink too much. I need you up bright and early. Remember - this is important, you idiot."

That being said, he gave Roulette, on the far end of the bar, a nod, and ducked out of the pub.

A few moments passed, and Calibrate pushed away her cube, suddenly feeling ill.

Maybe he was right - maybe she should just call it a day.

She had tried her best today, and that was all anyone could do.

Tomorrow would be a long day.

She chanced a look back at Tailgate, and smiled to reassure him. She watched the tension drop out of his limbs, and he grinned back, giving her a wave. Cyclonus barely reacted - as expected.

Calibrate said her last goodbyes to Blackjack, paid her tab, and left the pub with a single word in mind. A single, burning accusation.

 _Shadowplay._

 _Shadowplay._

 _Shadowplay._

Suddenly, the world didn't feel so safe and cozy, anymore.


	6. 04: Lies and Secrets

"Lies and secrets, Tessa, they are like a cancer in the soul. They eat away what is good and leave only destruction behind."

\- Cassandra Clare, _Clockwork Prince_

 _I would like to start off with an apology for never failing to take my dear, sweet time writing out these chapters. I just - I want them to be absolutely perfect, to capture the story as well as they possibly can, and I am still finding that balance between saying too much and saying too little._

 _I'm aware that Tarn is a fan-favorite, and that some of my readers enjoy the way he is being portrayed, and I am so, so thankful for this. But I also can't help wondering if the rest of my characters are going ignored? I don't mean to be imprudent, but I really try my hardest with the others, to fit them as seamlessly into the tale as I can. I would appreciate some feedback on them, as well. I acknowledge that you are just getting to know them, readers, but once you feel comfortable enough, don't feel afraid to critisize their actions, thoughts, or behaviors. Or to, you know, leave feedback about them. :)_

 _I was trying to imitate MTMTE's astonishingly long roster of characters. I hope I'm doing a good job with the variety in character personalities. And yes, do not fret. Everything may seem calm, and untroubled, but that is just the surface of things. I have plenty of shocks and twists in mind to keep you all hooked. ;) Until then, enjoy the peace you have now, for it will not last._

 _(Seem familiar, anyone?)_

 _Xemnass: I had not even realized that Tarn had used his special little ability - thank you for pointing that out. It may have been a misunderstanding - but I will keep it that way. It adds a little spice - lol. Look at that - my own characters surprise me with their actions. And hey, Prime Soundwave is the first real Soundwave I got to meet. This is just my way of paying homage to him. Though aside from the obvious, I'm trying to keep him as close to canon (IDW-wise) as possible._

 _the Real Clair: You are just a favorite commenter of mine, are you not? Lol. Rodimus and Clandestine - that was rather a mistake, actually. But now that I look back on it, I don't regret a thing. It's unexpectedly endearing - and like I stated before to Xemnass, my own characters surprise me with their actions. xD And Whirl? Make a move? You'll see. (I hadn't intended for him to become such a significant character, but as I began to develop the story, I realized he would be making many more appearances.)_

* * *

The lights grew dimmer as Calibrate strolled down the streets of Kaon. They were timed to gradually de-activate with the rising sun - everyone knew that. But what she didn't understand was why only a few of them seemed to be functioning correctly.

The rest were blinking - on and off. A pattern that aggravated her already pounding head.

Calibrate didn't think she would ever regret another decision in her life half as much as she regretted downing five cubes of Nightmare Fuel and two of Blackjack the previous night. She'd had to scale down the vision intake of her optics to lessen the agony of the blinding city lights.

And her day was only just beginning. She should have stopped by the Alibi for some of Blackjack's miracle hangover cure. (It was rumored to take effect after just two kliks.)

(Of course, the truth of this claim was up for debate - considering Blackjack himself was the one who started the rumor.) She couldn't even begin to recall whether Road Rage had mentioned why in the Pits he wanted to see her so early in the morning - at such an ungodly hour.

She found herself peering into her reflection - it had rained last night. Odd - she couldn't remember leaving the bar. How had she gotten back home, much less onto her berth?

Her optics were dim, but the blue was unmistakable. Her biolights were flashing, to warn people of her presence in the darkness of the city. It was a safety measure - one she didn't see as completely necessary, but one she had to abide by, all the same.

(No one drove at this time of the night, anyways. Any sensible person was deep in recharge by now, and wouldn't be waking for another cycle or two.)

She lifted her helm, optics shuttering as a single drop of coolant dripped down along the curve of her cheekplate. That was just another thing - she had sobbed her spark out all night long, and woke up with coolant drying on her face. In fact, she was still shedding the blue liquid right now.

And she couldn't even remember why.

It had something to do with Biohazard - she thought.

Shaking her helm, she made her way down the boulevard, and eventually reached the arching walls separating New Kaon from Old Kaon. That part was off-limits to the public - still under construction. They were clearing up all the debris, claimed the Senate. Cleaning up the mess, making it habitable once again.

The unspoken truth was that they were remodeling the whole place - knocking down the places that would bring the Veterans shame. Like the coliseums, the gladiatorial arenas, the slums, the old brothels and dancing clubs - just like they were doing to the Dead End of Polyhex.

Don't ask her how she knew - Calibrate just knew things, sometimes.

(Or so, that's what she could only guess at. Maybe Road Rage had mentioned it at some point. Her memories were a little fuzzy right now - and she was craving a sip of Blackjack - the _drink_ , not the _person_.)

She paused in her trek, far-away gaze stuck on the high walls.

She could almost swear - if she squinted -

"Calibrate."

She blinked, and her optics shuttered, then her vision zoomed in.

Her vision wasn't playing tricks on her. Road Rage was actually sitting on the flat surface of the wall, way up high, stabilizing servos dangling over the edge. "Road Rage?" her words were slow, confused, tired. "What are you doing up there?"

He gave her what passed as a withering look (to her dazed processor) - and hopped down from his perch. His servos took hold of her shoulders, and he studied her expression, as well as her slumped stance.

"You look like you crawled out of the Dead End, Cali," his tone betrayed his disapproval.

"I _feel_ like I crawled out of the Dead End," she murmured, fingers rubbing absently at her tired optics. "Can we just hurry this along, Road-ee? I'd like to get at least a few more cycles of recharge in before I go meet Soundwave."

He huffed. "Soundwave."

She blinked. "Yes, Road Rage. Soundwave." She paused, and then her optics brightened. "I think he's my friend, now."

Her companion snorted. "Yeah, you _would_ get excited about that."

"What's wrong with making new friends?"

"It's not the making friends that worries me, Calibrate - it's _who_ you're making friends _with_. Lately, you seem drawn to the unpredictable and dangerous. I mean, for Primus' sake, if you're going to get yourself smitten to a Veteran, can't you stick to the relatively harmless ones?"

His optics were narrowed, expression unreadable.

"I don't feel that way about him, and you know that," she corrected him, though she didn't know why she bothered. So what if she was (theoretically) interested in the silent ex-Decepticon? He wasn't doing anything to bring her harm - in fact, she wasn't lying when she said he might be her friend. She was almost certain she had grown on him.

"It's not necessarily Soundwave I'm worried about you being romantically inclined towards."

Her optic ridges furrowed in confusion. He took a look around their surroundings, and ushered her along. "I've got a way in. Come on."

"In there?" She shot a wary look towards the wall. The wall she had never crossed - and never even dreamed of being close enough to touch.

"No - to the Dead End." He gave her a blank look. "Of course _in there_ , Mr. Holmes. Why else would I invite you out to the Wall way past curfew hour? I had to check and double-check about five thousand times before I knew it was safe to bring you out here today. The guard shifts change every six cycles. Right now is the only time we have to do this. So, I'll repeat what I said - _come on_."

She watched him approach the wall, optics alight with concern as she studied their surroundings, suddenly beginning to see shapes in the morning shadows where there were none. This - this was such a bad idea, she couldn't even begin to describe how stupid it was.

He paused, noticing she wasn't right behind him, and turned, expression scornful. "Preferably in _this_ century, Cali."

She hurried after him, regret filling her gut like a bad cube of spoiled energon. "Have you finally _lost it_?" He peered up towards the Wall, mouth pulled into a scowl and expression filled with exasperation.

"Calibrate, it's just a wall. I know about the rumors - trust me, I've heard them, too, but the wall isn't going to bite you, and there's no one on the other side waiting to arrest us for trespassing. Technically, this is public property - it's part of the city, and there's no rule that says we can't be here." He held out his servos, placating, expression steady.

By this point, the situation had sobered her completely. "What do you mean, _there's no rule_? The officers of Kaon have spent the last thirty vorns or so enforcing the very same rule you seem to have forgotten - conveniently enough - existed!"

He gave her a chiding look. "If you would just let me explain."

She said nothing in return, so he took this as his cue to continue. He hoisted himself up onto the flat of the wall, balancing precariously on crevices and dents along the way, and then peered down into her bright optics. "There's no actual rule - I checked the manual."

"The - the manual?" She gave him an inquisitive look. " _What_ manual?"

" _The_ manual." When she didn't respond, he sighed, holding out his hand for her to take. Was he planning to pull her up? No way! No way was she actually doing this!

(This was such a horrible idea!)

"Calibrate, unless you want to get caught, you better hurry and grab my servo so I can pull you up, you half-clock," he scolded her for taking her sweet time in hesitating.

She shot him a fierce glare, but either he didn't see it in the dim lighting, or he didn't care.

(Most probably the latter.)

" _You're_ the half-clock, you - you _half-clock_!" she sputtered, but reached for his servo, anyways. He didn't miss a beat - before she could blink or even breathe (if she had needed to), she was balancing beside him on the flat surface of the boundary between Old Kaon and New Kaon.

The very same wall she had always known better than to stray too close to.

"I didn't know there was a manual," she mumbled, watching as he hopped down onto the other side (the forbidden side). She took only a moment, looking out over the streets of the city she had come to know like the back of her servo, and then hopped down beside him onto the hard pavement. The one littered with garbage and debris and - and - was that _energon_?

She resisted the urge to grimace, though she felt her tank churning. She wasn't a newspark - she knew the only reason energon would be spotted outside of the body (or a reservoir). Someone had died there, or at least shed considerable energon to have been in serious trouble.

"What are we doing here?" She sincerely hoped that he had at least a good excuse for breaking the law. He shot her nary a glance back, and she realized that he had gone on ahead.

"Come on," he ordered, instead of answering her question. "Why tell you when I can _show_ you?" Oh, no - he had killed someone and buried their body here, hadn't he?

Damnit, Road Rage - she knew he was a delinquent, a troublemaker with no boundaries, but seriously - _murder_? _**Murder**_!?

"I just want you to know that I'm not helping you destroy the evidence," she began, and he shot her a dark look. "And if you try to kill me - "

"I'm not going to kill you, genius. If I wanted you dead, you would be." He waited for her to catch up, and then directed her attention down one of the old streets (strewn with so much debris she had trouble seeing what he was indicating towards). "You see that?"

She blinked, trying to ignore the foul stench in the air, as well as the painful pinpricks in her pedes whenever she stepped on chunks of broken street or shattered glass. This was going to be one hell of a stroll. "Yeah - what is it?"

He strode towards the cavernous ruins, placing the palm of his servo against the frame of a missing door that led into silent, black hallways. There was another door, barely hanging off its hinges, that the rising sunlight shone through, right into her optics.

She peered around, feeling the - what was that term Road Rage liked to use? Heebie jeebies? Well, that's exactly what she was feeling. It was dark, and creepy, and cold. There was energon everywhere, there was debris, and they were alone in a virtual ghost-town.

And to top the icing on the cake, she could swear Road Rage had led her to a gladiatorial arena.

(Who knew how many malevolent spirits wandered here?)

(It was normal to be a little paranoid about ghosts - Calibrate could swear. She wasn't the only one who thought they existed!)

(Stop laughing.)

"Do you know where we are?" His voice startled her.

It was low, almost respectful. His optics were alight with something she couldn't understand, and he led the way inside, pushing the door out. It fell, out of place, and lay limply on the dusty floor.

The area through the door _was_ an arena, with spectator seats rising around in an incomplete circle. It must have once been magnificant and awe-inspiring. Now, the walls were bent like the wind had blown them in with a great punch - and the seats were beginning to cave in towards the hidden passageways below.

There was a grand statue erected in the middle of the arena, depicting a fierce warrior, one that stood with grace, demanded respect. She felt a sense of familiarity - where had she seen that figure before?

"This is the arena where Megatron took a real stand - where he refused to kill his brethren and told the audience, broadcast to the whole world, to the very Senate, that he would not bow beneath their fist. And that - " he indicated the statue. "Is Megatron."

"Road Rage - "

"I know, I know - _why are we here_? Well, I've got something to show you. Something I know you'll be interested to see." Her longtime friend led the way through the area, around the erected monument (which she took the time to take a holo-snap of - sure, she wasn't even supposed to have seen it, but now that she had, there was no way she wasn't going to take back at least photographic memory - for her own study, of course, because no one could ever know she had been here), and led her to the edges of the area.

Due west, she noted. (Just in case she ever needed to come back - which, hopefully, she wouldn't. This place was like taking a breath of history, yes, and boy was that exciting, but it was also illegal. And breaking the law once was enough for Calibrate. She just didn't have the ball bearings to do it again, much less _willingly_.)

(Was _ball bearings_ the right wording?)

He had come to a stop before a hollow carving, one that housed part of the collapsing audience stands. Debris was piled up in the otherwise empty space, and then, she noticed them.

The data pads, the logs, the recorders. Holo-images, forgotten words - all part of the distant past. She knew, without asking, that this was not open to the public optic for viewing. One preliminary scan told her that much.

What _was_ all this? She was almost afraid to ask - because she knew that, unlike their Senate, he would answer. And she wasn't so sure she really wanted to know the answer.

(Once you knew something, you (usually) couldn't un-learn it.)

"Road Rage?"

"This is all from Iacon."

He had stooped down, his knees bent, and was dusting off a data pad.

As well as studiously avoiding her optics. She could almost see a flash of uncertainty - and felt insulted by his hesitation. Of course, she didn't approve of his no-doubt-illegal actions, but that didn't mean he couldn't trust her!

They had promised each other, without words, long ago - this bond was special. She would never betray his trust, and he would never betray hers. It was the reason their bond had lasted so long. Usually, it was unheard of for two of their kind to be so close without becoming romantically linked.

Their bond was different, almost unheard of. It was similar to that of the bond between sparktwins. So he should know better than to keep such an important secret from her!

( _She_ told _him_ everything, after all.)

"Iacon? As in, the database?"

"Something like that."

He exvented across the flat screen of the pad, and then handed it to her.

There was a mech featured on the screen, in brilliant shades of blue and purple, and black, with glistening red optics, like a flash of color across a blank slate. In white -

" _Towards Peace_ , Megatron of Tarn," she read aloud. There was a moment of blissful silence, during which he gave her a meaningful look. Then, the data pad dropped from her fingers.

"Oh - Primus - Road Rage, are you - have you lost your _mind_!?"

"That's twice today," he remarked coolly.

"Twice - _what_? Twice what?"

"That's twice today that you've implied I was crazy," he said, this time with a grin.

"Stop smiling - wipe that grin off your face," she sputtered in protest. He straightened up, stretching, ignoring her as he advanced towards the pile of (contraband) data. "Do you have any idea how much trouble you could get in if anyone found out about this?"

"Yeah - _if_ they found out. They'd have to look for this stuff, first, and thing is, they don't know where it is, or who took it - and you know what? I reckon they don't even know it's gone. No one's brave enough to look for this stuff, and so they don't have any reason to think it's anywhere but the vaults. Unless - that is - someone gave them reason to suspect," he peered down into her optics. (It was infuriating - he hadn't been forged very long before her, and yet somehow, he was still much taller. For crying out loud - the Veterans took one look at him, and his expression, those mean red optics, and thought he was one of them.)

"What are you trying to imply? If you didn't trust me, you shouldn't have showed me all this," she gestured wildly, and then huffed out, bending down to pick up the fallen data pad. The screen was cracked, now, but it was still legible.

"I wasn't implying anything, Cali - I was just making sure you knew that this wasn't something you should talk about - to anyone. Not Blackjack, not Clandestine - not even Biohazard. And especially not Soundwave - though I know you would love to trust him with your life, I don't want you trusting him with _mine_."

"Soundwave wouldn't tell anyone, Road Rage," she felt stung. "And like I said, if you didn't want anyone to know - "

"I did. I wanted someone to know - _you_. Because you're the only person I can really trust in this backwards world." He offered her an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry, I wouldn't burden you with my secret if I didn't think it was something you needed to know."

She blinked. "Why do you think I need to know about this? You know, I'm not terribly fantastic under pressure - if they start suspecting and haul me in for questioning - well, I don't know if I'll be able to stand my ground."

"Yes, you will. You're stronger than you think." He folded his servos, inspecting the pile of (contraband) items with slight interest. "And anyways, there's no way I'll let them touch a single square inch of metal on that pretty face of yours."

Her optical ridges furrowed. "Why the special occasion, Road Rage? Why the crime?"

"Because I suspected we'd been lied to - that they were omitting important information. Cali, they've got seasoned psychopaths wandering the streets and they don't think we've even got the right to know who they are. What happens if a Veteran flips his shit? No one's going to be ready, and most of the Veterans have given up their arms. They're leaving us defenseless in a scary world full of scary people - they might as well round up the general population and drop us off at the Sea of Rust for the kicks."

"They're not telling us this stuff because the Veterans are people, too, Road Rage, and they deserve their privacy. Clean slate, remember? That's what the Program is for - to protect them from nosy people like Quicksilver - no offense to _her_."

"Great - the Program protects them, but who protects _us_?"

"What - what are you talking about? We're perfectly safe. That's what the officers are for, why people like Ultra Magnus are running the law enforcement departments worldwide."

"No, people like him are running the law because they think we're not qualified to take the baton. People like him are running it out of homage to the past - because they're not really ready to let go and live as civilians in this _charmed life_ of ours. They're hypocrites, every last one of them. They can't be soldiers, anymore, so they settle for being officers of the law, and judges, and lawyers, and Elite Guardsmen. They will never think we're ready to rise up to the occasion - and you know what? Maybe they're right."

"Somehow - I thought you were going in a different direction with that."

He held up a servo. "Hear me out."

She sighed.

"Maybe they're right - because they don't _want_ us to be prepared."

"What?"

"Think about it," he tapped at the side of his helm. "They're used to being needed by the general populace - as protectors, as guardians, as warriors, as lawmakers. So, if they told us everything, if they prepared us for the worst, we wouldn't really need them, anymore, would we? And then they would come to realize that the war is really over. They solve this dilemma, this existential crisis, by making sure we still need them, that we still need to be protected, like the first generation way back when. They keep us ignorant because it's more convenient."

She didn't mean to stare, but boy, was he reaching.

"If I'm supposed to believe that conspiracy theory - "

"It's not a conspiracy, Calibrate. It's an observation - a fact, proven time and again. Have you heard about Tesarus? Onslaught? Do you have any idea what your precious Soundwave had been up to before coming to Kaon?"

"I don't know two of those names - and Soundwave - I know he's having a hard time of it. I can see it in his optics. He used to follow a cause, Road Rage. One that lost a four-million-year war. It can't be easy to adjust to that."

"Oh, yes, a true call to sympathy - but what about the people he's offlined in a fit of rage? Seventeen, Calibrate. Seventeen of ours. Not of theirs - no Veterans died. Seventeen of _ours_. All because someone _mentioned_ Megatron."

She watched him pick up another data pad, study it with an expression of distaste, and then discard it in favor of another one. "Here," he handed it to her. "Read this."

"What is it?" she took the pad, glancing over it.

"Records - sealed to the public. See that?"

"Tesarus - a prisoner?"

"An _escaped_ prisoner," he corrected her. "And he took out five of ours in just the holding block."

She read through - and winced. "Rotary blades inserted in his abdomen - a makeshift grinder. Locked in place, bits of shredded metal, dried spots of energon, overrun by new stains. Last seen on the outskirts of Polyhex. Took down twenty-three civilians on his way out. Alert is raised - maximum security needed on the patrol. Proceed with caution."

"Mhm - and you know how many of the dead were Veterans?"

"Let me guess - none?" she peered up at him.

"Precisely, my dear old friend. Precisely."

"I don't know - maybe they should have placed him under tighter security."

"No, Cali. They shouldn't have given him another damn chance. He isn't like the rest of us - he's a seasoned mass murderer. He took out people _in his own faction_ \- officially because they were traitors to the cause, or cowards, or spies, but in my opinion, it seemed more like he did it for the shits and giggles. That guy - that guy isn't even _sentient_ , at this rate. He's just a glorified weapon - one that should've been put down like the dog he is long ago. But no - all this poppycock about that ridiculous program gave psychopaths like him right-of-way to kill whoever they wanted and get away with it. His _own people_ wanted him cut down - wrap your head around _that_ one."

"So you're saying he should've been put to death for his war crimes?"

"Mhm - that's one way of putting it. I personally would give him a taste of his own medicine - build a large grinder just for him, the sick bastard, but yeah, anything, really, would have worked. So long as he wasn't a problem, anymore. I'm not about to get picky."

"What is all this supposed to prove?"

"This is all the information they've been holding from the public. Cali, no one even knows about that damn attack, no one outside the thirteenth district of Polyhex, which is where he escaped from. It's all hush-hush. There's a mass murderer on the loose and I didn't even know about it, me, _me_ , an archivist, a historian, until I read through those records."

"They haven't found him, yet?" she felt a sickening dread creeping into her circuits.

(How was she expected to recharge, in the dark, after hearing about this?)

"No. You get it, yet, Calibrate? Peace isn't real - peace is a joke, a delusion, because so long as we don't know the truth, we'll never really be free. We'll always be prisoners of our own ignorance - we'll be unable to defend ourselves from the real menaces out there. We'll be weak. And people like that, Cali? People like that eat the weak for breakfast."

She shivered - and she wasn't sure, suddenly, if it was from the chilly air brushing up against her protoform through her barely-there armor, or if it was his words. It was startling, to realize how ill-equipped she really was in the face of potential danger.

This armor wouldn't even stop a .20 bullet, much less a grinder.

He stepped back, then, expression shifting. "Do you understand now why I did this?"

"So you can be prepared."

"So I can be prepared." He accepted this answer. And then he grinned.

"But seriously - no word of this to anyone."

"Of - of course. I won't mention it."

He began to cover up his data pads and logs with debris, pushing all that he'd gathered into a crevice in the crumbling wall. "If you feel like informing yourself, Cali, you can always come back here and look. After all, knowledge is power."

"And so it is," she mumbled, servo clenching around the data pad. "Actually, I'm going to download this into my personal data chip. I want to look at it later - in private."

She held up the pad, as if asking for permission. He shrugged.

"Go ahead - I've already read all of it. Stored it in my memory core."

While she dug through a subspace for an empty data chip, he watched her, and then -

"Anything you want to tell _me_?"

She paused. "Actually - yes. I'm glad you trusted me, Road Rage. I don't know why you put so much faith into our bond, but I'm really, really grateful that you do. I wouldn't know what to do if I was the only one that cared."

He took a step towards her, placing his servo, warm, onto the crown of her helm.

"You will never be the only one who cares, Cali. No matter what happens, I'll always love you."

She felt herself smiling - she couldn't help it. It wasn't often that Road Rage made sweeping declarations of emotional significance, so she appreciated the few times he did.

"I love you, too, silly, which is why if you keep all this up, you're going to give me a spark attack," she scolded him, tone light as she downloaded the data from the pad into the spare chip she had found.

He scoffed.

"And - and that's not all I wanted to say." She peered up into his optics. "I've been keeping a secret, too, for a while, now. And - and I don't want to do that, not to you. Not when you trust me with your crimes."

"It's hardly a crime," he interjected, and she shushed him with a single wave of the servo.

"Let me finish!" She took a deep vent. "Roulette - he's not a civilian. He never was."

"I suspected as much."

"He was an Autobot, a Wrecker. Whatever that means."

"A Wrecker is - the Wreckers were special ops. They carried out the jobs too dirty for anyone else to even think about doing. The bad, and the nasty. The messed-up. They did the type of thing that was either mass murder, impossible, or suicidal."

"Is that why he - ?" she implied the heavy drinking habit.

"That's _his_ way of coping, I guess. Not like all of them do it. In fact, those were the glory days for some of them. You know Whirl, right?"

A flash of a single optic, a teasing giggle (the memory of a prick of pain from those claws of his), swept through her processor. "Who _doesn't_ know Whirl?"

"He was one of them."

"Yep - don't know why I didn't see _that_ one coming."

He laughed, and began to make his way towards the gaping hole where the door to the arena once stood. "Come on - let's get out of this dump before the officers on patrol find us snooping around here."

("You said you found this stuff in Iacon - was that when you working in the archives?"

"Astute observation."

"Were you _actually_ working, Road Rage, or did you lie to me just to go snooping around?"

His expression twisted in his annoyance. "I _was_ working.")

She sent one last, fleeting look at the statue of Megatron.

His blank expression, the rage she was certain he was displaying, was etched into her mind long after she had left the coliseum and started back towards the boundary to cross over safely into the life she knew better than this ghost of their home's past.

* * *

"Soundwave! Over here!" she called out to the expressionless mech.

He turned his helm, red optics gleaming in the sunlight, and suddenly, she remembered what Road Rage had told her. The thought was ushered out simply because she knew that if she had it in mind by the time he had reached her, he would just know.

(Like he seemed to _just know_ a lot of things she never said aloud.)

"What do you have in mind for today, Calibrate?" he inquired, mostly because he knew it was considered impolite to read someone's mind without asking for their permission.

(And also because in order to ask for her permission, he would have to explain what he did, and knowing her, _how_ he did it - that was simply an explanation he was not ready to give.)

"I wanted to show you the ceremony. You've heard of it, right? The legacy-bonding ceremony?"

"I may have read an article or two on the subject matter."

She beamed, or almost did, but stopped herself just in time. He didn't need to know that she was looking out for his adjustment process. The fact that he wasn't speaking so much in monotonous third-person was a good sign.

(He didn't tell her that as soon as she thought it, he knew.)

(And though he normally wouldn't bother to dwell on it, he found it a rather endearing thought.)

"Well, it's even better to see in person than it is to read about on some dusty old data pad!" She reached for his servo, and gripped it tight, before giving him a tug. "Come on! I got the good doctor to tell me all about a planned ceremony for this afternoon. You and I - we're going to play spectators!"

"Is that not a private affair? I would not wish to intrude - "

He was hesitant, she could see that much, but what he didn't understand was that this society was very different from the one he was so accustomed to. Yes, privacy was still a thing of the present, but the concept of hiding away that which mattered to you, including a bond, was outdated. Ancient, like the old Senate.

In this day and age, if you loved someone, or something, you let the whole of Cybertron know - or, at least, anyone who cared to listen. (Or see.) Because _you are what you love_ , and what a person cared about was what defined them.

That was how Calibrate had been raised to think.

She understood that this was a difficult concept to grasp for someone as distant and careful as Soundwave, so she was trying to slip in a few ice-breakers here and there. This was one of them.

(Plus, she had received direct permission from the bonded pair to spectate their legacy-bonding ceremony. It wasn't as if she was unwelcome.)

(They just didn't know she was bringing a Plus One.)

(She assumed they thought she was spectating for educational purposes - her youth helped her to accomplish many things, and she was glad, for once, that no one had any clue in regards to her actual age. Sometimes, being born in a late generation of newsparks had its perks.)

"They know I'm coming - so there's no need to worry yourself about it. No need at all," she explained with a perky smile, and offered him her servo not a klik later. This time, he didn't look around at his surroundings before accepting the gesture.

Which meant he was definitely making progress.

* * *

"Why is this so important to you, Calibrate?"

She paused, and he watched her carefully as she turned to face him.

Something in her expression was hesitant.

"What do you mean?"

"You are so - adamant on this change. You don't want me to be alone - and you try so hard to make me feel like I'm welcome here. I have been," he struggled to find the right words. Once, finding the right words to say wasn't a problem - in fact, communication was simple, easy. Make your point, and move on. That was all he knew - but lately, after meeting these newsparks, after making Calibrate's acquaintance, he began to realize that not everyone thought of dialogue as a means to get what they wanted, or where they needed to be.

Dialogue was not reserved solely for communication in this new Cybertron.

It was also used for entertainment, for courtship, for _fun_. To show off wit and cleverness.

Once, speaking in circles would have been frowned upon. But now, it was commonplace to speak in a manner similar to Starscream's pattern of speech.

He was trying to adjust - and it was not easy.

"I have been wondering, thinking this over, again and again, because I have nothing left to think about. I still can't understand why you go to such great lengths to make me feel welcome in a society that feels poisoned by my presence. So, I have decided - it is time I ask you instead of floundering for answers."

"You're asking why I show you kindness instead of scorn?"

He tilted his head, his expression saying everything he couldn't say.

Confirmation, and concern.

"Soundwave, I'm doing this because you need me to. You need to be reminded of your own sentience, and you need to remember that as a living being with a spark, you're no exception to the change of ideals in Cybertronian society. With this new order comes a new peace that many have never known - I acknowledge that, and I can't imagine how difficult it must be for someone of your caliber, of your reputation and record, to adjust to locking down the weapons upgrades and settling for a life of non-violence and belief in the protection of the law. You've been given a second life - a blank slate. This is your chance to see what you could become without following anyone's orders but your own." Her expression was difficult to read into, but the sincerity in her optics was unmistakable. Those clear, bright blue optics - unrelenting, earnest.

She truly meant every word.

(That was something he didn't think he would ever grow accustomed to - not after centuries of lies and deceit.)

"This is your chance, Soundwave, to make something of yourself. Something you can be proud of. You don't have to mind everyone else - just for once, you can be selfish and try to do exactly what you want to do. And this is that first step - maybe if you observed kindness without ulterior motive, I'm hoping you can come to terms with the fact that things have changed. Nothing is the same as it once was. You don't have to be careful, anymore. If for no one else's sake, you can try to believe in something other than dominion through power - for yourself. Do you understand what I'm trying to say?" Her optical ridges were furrowed - as it was, she wasn't certain she had made the point she'd set out to make.

(See, everything always sounded better in her processor - the words got all jumbled when they spilled out of her mouth. Somewhere down the route from her helm to her glossa, what she wanted to say fell apart and left meaningless noise behind as its legacy.)

But because he could understand the thoughts carried by electromagnetic pulses in her processor, he knew what she had intended to say. Everything she couldn't ever begin to put into words.

The sentiment rang loud and clear.

And for once, he was not alienated by the warmth in another living being.

"I do understand you - but more than that," he paused, and, spark sputtering in confusion and uncertainty (and the terror that he would wake from this moment into a war-torn universe at the beck-and-call of a master whose mind was slowly deteriorating), he slipped his servo into hers.

"I trust you."

There was a beat of silence, then two, then three - and then her whole face lit up.

"Great. Because I trust you, too - and I have to admit, I'd be pretty sad to hear otherwise from you. After everything I've done," her tiny fist collided with his shoulder, in a gesture he recognized (and had categorized) as _playful_.

He was surprised to feel no reflex to the harmless notion - and realized that maybe she was right, after all. Maybe there was still a chance for him to outlive his legacy as _Lord Megatron's most loyal officer_. Maybe he could finally see what the future had in store for him - as just Soundwave.

(And maybe, just maybe, he didn't have to traverse that unknown fate, or this strange new world, alone.)

* * *

"Annnnnnnd - we're here!"

This was announced with an (appropriately) ridiculous amount of excitement.

Soundwave found himself doubting that the securing of a bond between a newspark and its carriers could be all that fascinating. He, himself, had formed numerous bonds over the long years of his life - stemming back to his time as an agent for Senator Ratbat in a Cybertron that had yet to see the horrendous war that rendered it uninhabitable.

His mini-cassette partners-in-combat (as well as the other walk of his life as an intelligence and communications officer) had been his first real bonds. After that, it had all been a matter of strategy - in the name of Lord Megatron, the Decepticon cause, and all that he had stood for those long, long years.

Strategy, and appeasement.

Sometimes, he found himself doing what was necessary to keep the bonds between Megatron and his allies strong. Even if it meant forging new bonds he did not wish to maintain, otherwise.

It had not caused his mini-cassettes harm - so he had done whatever he could, in those respects.

But it had caused _himself_ considerable harm - when those bonds were severed, either in death or departure of alliances, it was added as a new scar to his spark. Decepticon and enemy medical forces alike warned him against the foolishness of extending his bonds of the spark without sincerity to build a foundation of relations, but Lord Megatron had ordered him to do what he must to ensure their success, and so he had.

Without concern for his own health. The end of the war came with a dangerous flirtation with death - his spark had begun to fade. Luckily, it was salvaged. This meant all his former bonds were gone. They had renewed his spark considerably - there were a few lingering scars, but nothing too serious. He had almost felt an inexplicable sorrow - those bonds, those markings, had been part of his identity, his legacy as trusted officer of the cause. Now that most of them were gone, he couldn't help but wonder what legacy he had truly left behind.

Did he _have_ a legacy?

He had spent so much of his life serving as a shadow to Lord Megatron that he had long forgotten what it felt like to walk in the light. The scars burned with a ghost pain, and that was all he had left of his so-called _legacy_.

For this reason, he found it to be a difficult task to feel _half_ as excited as Calibrate was about observing the makings of a bond between two Cybertronians and their own legacy. He had none of his own to speak of - so why should he celebrate the joy he himself could not feel?

And yet she had insisted - and for reasons unknown, mysterious, to himself, he obliged.

Why? Was he not done following? Was he not yet ready to lead his own path?

(It was crude to think of their relationship in this manner - and yet, he could not help himself.)

"And so we are."

She turned to face him with that bright grin on her narrow and delicate faceplates, and he felt a familiar ache in his spark that he had not felt since he had been put under after being caught by the Autobot forces (forced to watch as they ended his lifelong companions and thus forcibly severed their bonds).

"What's with the long face? Come on - this is amazing! A real-life bonding, right before our very optics, is about to take place. I mean, _I'm_ so excited I can't even stand it!"

Then, it struck him. Of course - it was so completely obvious, he didn't quite understand how he hadn't seen it before. She was new to this experience, and thus anxious to see it, because she had never forged a bond, a _real_ bond, before.

Which meant she was just as alone as he had been, once. And as he was, now.

And this meant, as well, that the rumor about her bond with her young friend was just that - a rumor. That glimmer in her optics when she looked at him, and the unmistakable _thing_ he felt when they were together, and the fact that they both were investing so much time and effort (despite their initial misgivings) into their relationship - it wasn't all his imagination.

Or a coincidence.

He wasn't losing his processor - there was something tangible happening between the two of them that he hadn't grasped because he was preoccupied with lamenting the path that had led him here. But perhaps he had nothing to lament - perhaps this road was the right one, _because_ it had led him here - because it had led him to _her_.

This experience, this bonding between carriers and a sparkling, were something she wanted to witness - not alone, but alongside him. It was important to her, and so, presumably, was he.

He watched her optics closely, now, studied the way her smile brightened, and the way her fingers squeezed around his, as she watched the pair of fellow civilians coo and fuss over their newspark - a tiny thing, unable to properly filter its optics, crying because of the bright light shining into her face.

And then Calibrate gasped.

He snapped abruptly back to full attention, almost ashamed of himself for watching her instead of the event she had so dearly wanted him to witness. "Look - " she pointed out the vein's opening. "It's another one!"

He turned his helm, and sure enough, there was a newspark, sitting on the edge of the vein, having just been lifted out by the force of energy from the Well of Allsparks. The newspark had only just been forged - he didn't quite know how to protect his EM field from interlopers.

And so the first field to touch him was an instant bond.

He lifted his tiny helm, and looked straight into the former intelligence officer's optics.

Soundwave couldn't quite contain his shock - and felt his control slipping away. There was a steady pulsating in his spark, a sharp pull, and he was left almost breathless. His processor spun - he was unable to form a coherent sentence, or truly gather his thoughts, but one thing was clear.

He had formed his first bond since the end of the war.

Without thinking, almost automatically, he began his descent down the staircase, towards the sparkling - having no idea what he planned to do, half-terrified of losing another bond and being forced to endure that terrible pain (which tempted him into chucking the newspark back down into where it came from), but knowing he had to do something before someone took him away.

If he never saw that face again, he suddenly wasn't sure he would to go on.

The newspark's optics were a gleaming golden, and his coloring was a metallic silver.

He noticed the ex-Decepticon officer heading his way - but he did not scream in terror, or attempt to escape. Soundwave faltered - he wasn't certain how to react to the innocence of a child. It did not realize the extent of the threat he posed to its fragile life - and it didn't seem to care. Its faceplates lit up like the explosives that tore apart its world centuries ago, and it _smiled_ at him, and lifted its servos up, emitting a small noise, clear, light, high. Like a chime in the wind.

He was suddenly thrown back, quite abruptly, into a memory he had been sure he had deleted from his hard-drives. The chiming of the lithic crystals of Harmonex. A breeze in the air that lifted all his worries with them out into the sky, and the smile of a feline companion who had finally let his guard down long enough to enjoy the moment of true tranquility.

"Soundwave!" he heard the alarmed calling of his present companion, but did not turn. He approached the newspark, and as gently as possible, lifted the creature into his arms. It stirred, but did not cry out. It didn't seem to be possible of shedding a single tear of coolant - it appeared to have been forged with that radiant gleam of cheer on its faceplates.

He didn't know how long he stood beside the vein, holding the tiny creature, but time seemed to become meaningless when its golden optics looked up into his own faceplates, and it smiled. Its chime of a voice found some ground, and he felt the delight in the creature's EM field brush against his own.

"Soundwave," spoke out Calibrate, who had come to stand beside him (without his notice).

She peered down into the creature's faceplates, and it looked back at her.

The young femme appeared to be caught by surprise, thunderstruck. Her optics shuttered.

The newspark made another of those high noises, and the femme leaned forward to place a fleeting kiss on its forehelm. It cooed, and Soundwave made optical contact with Calibrate.

Her expression was pensive, thoughtful, meaningful. "Did you - did you feel that?"

"Yes."

She was smiling, suddenly, and she gave his arm a fleeting squeeze.

"I don't think he was scheduled to arrive today."

"What does this mean?"

"It means," she exclaimed with a grin that worried him, "that the two of us have just been adopted." He wasn't entirely certain how he should feel about this development.

He hadn't been prepared to form another bond, not after what he had been put through as a result of his reckless bonding, but one look at that tiny face and he knew, just as he always had, that he would do anything to keep that spark beating and well.

She had been wrong, and right. The future had something else in store for him, other than his abhorrent failure as a Decepticon, but he was also destined to forever serve. And he had just found the being he would do anything to keep satisfied.

And just like in the past, that being was named _Conduit_ , in honor of one of the many bonds he had never been able to keep when death had come swaying his way. But this time, there would be no death to take his Conduit away - this time, he would not fail as a guardian.

(Because this time, he was certain he wasn't alone in caring for the being named _Conduit_.)

(And sometimes, he had to let himself feel grateful for the small things, because those were all he ever got to keep in his sorry excuse for a life.)

But to keep Conduit safe, no one could know he existed. Soundwave had made too many enemies in his life, and he was certain (though the Autobots attempted to convince him otherwise) that they would do anything to make him suffer.

(He wouldn't consider murder of a newspark a crime too heinous for certain individuals.)

"This stays between us." He wasn't planning to compromise.

Thankfully, he didn't have to. "Of course."

(She, personally, was just excited for all that this meant, and for the opportunity to share something so meaningful, so personal, with Soundwave - even if it meant she couldn't share the joy with anyone else.)

(But that was fine - Calibrate could keep a secret, no matter what anyone else said.)

* * *

Calibrate studied the holo-image clasped in her servo.

Biohazard's kind face graced its surface, and she wondered how anyone could suspect him of foul play. He wouldn't ever do anything to harm anyone - she didn't even need to inquire. She just knew. He had raised her, him and Quicksilver - people like that, people who took in a newspark that wasn't theirs to care for, or that had no bond with them, and cared for her as if she was their own? Those kind of people weren't capable of hurting anyone.

She felt her lip components twitching up into a smile, and she stood up on the toe of her pede to place the image where it belonged. Just input this code - wire that setting, and... presto!

She watched the image flutter across the screen, and consoled herself with the knowledge that though she hadn't been successful in putting up many of the images (some locations in Kaon didn't allow unpaid advertising), she had placed the ones she _had_ put up in places that there were sure to be many who saw them.

Like this place - the hospital where she worked catered to many Veterans, so this was the perfect place for one such advertisement. Biohazard would have his volunteer - and she would be the one to thank.

( _Finally_.)

A shadow blocked the sun from the image, and she turned, inquisitive, but the words died on her glossa. It was a hulking menace of a mech, red optics, scarred faceplates, and armor that screamed _Veteran_. His expression, however, despite this fearsome first impression, was one of dubious consideration.

He appeared to be curious.

"What is _this_ about, little one?"

His voice was like gravel, rough, low, and she almost had to strain to hear him.

"Oh, this?" she gestured to the image. He tilted his head forward in confirmation.

"It's an advertisement. A good friend of mine, Biohazard, he's working on this device to help give Veterans a clean slate, but before he can get it approved, he needs to test it out. He's running trials at the moment, but soon, he's going to need a living volunteer, preferably a Veteran."

"And that's what this is for?"

"Yes," she nodded her helm.

He studied the image for a moment, optics narrowing. "Is that him?"

"Yes." This time, she wasn't so sure of herself. He didn't appear happy with this development. "Have you met him, already?"

"I had never known his designation until now. Biohazard, you said?"

"Yes."

"Hmm," he murmured, and then turned his back on her, and the image. "Do you have no other obligations? Such as work, or school?"

"Oh, well, yes, I do," she shifted her weight. "But this is my break hour."

"And you're using it to help your friend? Either you don't particularly enjoy the energon they serve wherever it is that you work, or you truly care for this friend of yours."

"I suppose it's a combination of both," she said with a grin.

(Maybe he wasn't so bad - yeah, he was ridiculously intimidating, but he didn't appear to mean her any harm. And why would he? They didn't know each other.)

(Though it appeared he and Biohazard had met before - and the strange mech wasn't fond of the memory. She would definitely have to ask about that. It was an intriguing notion. Most people who met Biohazard liked him. She had heard from Quicksilver that even the _Prime_ had liked him!)

"Well, then, little one, I'd best be on my way. And you should do the same," he shot back a glance. "Though I'm certain the energon they serve you is weak, and that your _friend_ certainly would appreciate the gesture, I don't suppose that you should skip your refueling hour altogether."

Despite the fact that she didn't quite like how he emphasized her relationship with Biohazard, she had to agree that he was right - she, in fact, probably had to get going - else, she would miss her break!

(And then she would feel crabby for the rest of the day. That wasn't a pleasant feeling, so...)

"Alright! You take care of yourself, too, stranger!"

He turned, his expression of scorn and derision falling from his faceplates, revealing only shock. "You mean to tell me that you carried on a conversation with me without knowing my identity?"

Her optical ridges furrowed. "Should I have known who you are?"

He surprised her with a grin of his own. (It wasn't exactly the most friendly gesture.) "I'm beginning to think I rather like your ignorance. It certainly gives me the upper-hand in this conversation."

She huffed out. "Don't make fun of me! I'm not up-to-speed with the news - and so I don't know a whole lot of people, if you're supposed to be some kind of celebrity."

He held up a servo, placating. "Of course, of course - my _sincerest_ apologies."

(He didn't _sound_ very sincere.)

"I am Megatron. If they are still allowing me to keep that name." The last part was almost bitter (something she could expect from Road Rage).

"And I'm Calibrate!" She held out her servo with a cheery expression, trying not to become suddenly very afraid (and failing horribly) once it sunk in just who she was speaking with.

(Megatron! As in, _the_ Megatron! Leader of the Decepticons!)

(Her luck was either beginning to lift or running out in a downward spiral!)

(Depending on who you asked, that is.)

"It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Calibrate," he took her servo with his own and gave it a firm shake, before offering a grin, almost a playful gesture. "As much as I would like to stay and carry on this conversation, I must get going. Duty calls."

"Right. Um, you do that, and take good care of yourself."

He observed her with wary optics. "I should say the same to you. After all, it is a _scary_ world out there."

She didn't have time to process his words - he was already out of sight by the time she was preparing a witty response. Then, came another voice, from her right, this time.

Soft, calm, with a hint of good humor. "Is that with this is, then?"

She turned, coming face to face with a pair of golden optics that brought to mind Conduit.

"Is what - _what_?"

"Is this advertising for a new project in the works?"

"Yes! See, Biohazard - "

"I know - I heard." He offered her a smile that she couldn't make heads nor tails of. It appeared innocent enough, but something about it... "And I suppose, if it's Biohazard, well, it'll definitely work out in his favor, right?"

"I think so!"

"Well, I'll be the first to sign up, then," he laughed. "I've got a few memories I'd like to be rid of." She saw it, then - the flash of a faded branding.

"Oh, well, he'll be holding an informational briefing next week, if you'd like to hear more about it. In the square of Kaon, near the vein. I can't be sure, but I think it'll take place midday, middle of the week."

"I'll be there. You can count on that." He tilted his head, saluting her as a parting gesture.

Calibrate turned the conversation with Megatron over in her head (feeling a dueling combination of concern and excitement) as she began to make her way inside. She turned, having realized she'd forgotten to excuse herself, but froze.

The strange mech was eyeing the holo-image, and there was nothing if not a frightening bout of disdain in his optics. Other than that, his expression was unreadable, and it seemed he was mouthing something to himself.

She adjusted her audial receptors, just the slightest bit.

" - zero zero one."

Calibrate had no idea what that meant, or why he was muttering a sequence of numbers to himself, but after receiving a blank look from a certain mech who was making his way toward her, waving her over, she decided not to worry about it.

(Big mistake.)

* * *

"You are?"

Her colleague, a mech who insisted, in broken Neocybex, that they called him _Vos_ , exvented slowly, a noise of exasperation. Though she couldn't be too sure. That blank faceplate of his gave nothing away but the merest hint of emotion.

And this time around, she couldn't be certain if he was disgruntled (but pleased) about the attention, or annoyed (and _dis_ pleased) about it.

"Yes."

A simple monosyllabic response. Nothing too complicated.

He had made her swear to pretend he didn't have an accent, that he had a grip on the language that was taking him far too long (for _his_ liking) to learn, and so she honored that agreement by suppressing a smile in response to the lilt in his voice.

"That's - that's _good news_!" This time, she did allow herself a grin, to show him that she meant every word. Road Rage had brought it to her attention some time ago that the reason Vos often spat verbal abuse at her, despite her best efforts, was because he didn't believe in the sincerity of her words, or of her gestures.

(She had once placed her servo on his shoulder to congratulate him, and he had almost torn the whole thing off - a _reflex_ , he had claimed. Without even bothering to apologize.)

"It is," he was smug. Basking in the positive attention.

(She realized she might have been the first person in a very, _very_ long time to compliment something he had done, or said, and _meant_ it.)

(Veterans were an odd sort of people - they had suffered so much, and yet they held themselves so tall, chin high, and refused help, or pity, from their successors.)

(She couldn't help feeling a mix of respect and admiration - she, herself, wasn't strong. Not strong enough to endure what _they_ had endured, and survive, and live on, adjusting to a strange new world with half her friends dead and the other half missing.)

"That's enough of that. Please, before I get sick and churn my tanks."

They both turned, looking up towards Road Rage (wearing an expression of playful disgust).

"Hmm," she made a distinct noise of disapproval. "So I guess kindness is illegal, now, is it?"

"No. You can do whatever you want - but practice courtesy, for Primus' sake. You know I have a weak immune system. And your sickening behavior has the tendency to worsen my condition," that being said, he took a seat beside Vos, across from her.

The other mech observed this with a quiet acceptance, saying nothing but offering a grin. (She could swear that's what it was _supposed_ to be - but again, the peculiar situation with his face didn't exactly give her a clear picture of this phenomenon - and yes, _phenomenon_ , because he was such a grumpy mech that she found it would take a miracle to take him to his happy place.)

(Except, perhaps, for senseless murder and violence and the anguished screams of his victims, but she didn't know that yet, at this point in the story.)

"Road Rage," spoke Vos, waving his servos in something akin to excitement. "I have something to ask."

"Of me? Go ahead, knock yourself out. What's the worst that can happen, right?" her longtime companion shot her a look filled with mirth, and she had half-the-mind to scold him for teasing the other mech.

Though it seemed that Vos caught that exchange, because he made a noise of scorn.

"Do not mock Vos, little child. All lucky I am very patient mech," he muttered the last part, and the two of them exchanged a dubious look before she burst into giggles and Road Rage allowed a grin to grace his faceplates.

He clapped a servo to the other mech's back. "Why so serious?"

Vos did something she hadn't seen before from anyone but herself - he rolled his optics.

"Oh, please. No more of this joking. I am trying to say something serious."

His Neocybex was improving, she noted.

"Right, right - go ahead and ask your question," Road Rage was quick to dismiss the other mech's tone. (This didn't happen often - in fact, had it been anyone else, he would've called them out on it. Would've noted that there was no reason to act so hostile. But the two of them had known Vos long enough to acknowledge that he wasn't exactly a warm and friendly mech.)

(The fact that he kept his threats aimed towards them at a minimum was a phenomenon similar to a _miracle_.)

(Vos fussed to himself in low murmurs, probably trying to figure out how to say what he wanted to say.)

"Did you hear rumors of under-table gladiatorial arena?"

"Under-the-table," she corrected, though that was only one of _many_ issues with that the statement he had made. He, in turn, shot her a scathing look.

"Do not correct me, sparkling."

(She sighed, but said no more. There was no point in noting aloud that she was much older than a sparkling, by this point. She was born in the 34th generation, not the 70th!)

(At this moment, Generation 71 was being forged from countless hotspots covering the face of Cybertron's moons and colonies.) (Not even _counting_ those constructed cold.)

"Gladiatorial arena?" Road Rage finally asked. His optics were burning with curiosity, and he leaned in closer over the table. "What do you mean?"

"I mean exactly what I say. There is rumor of gladiatorial matches to-death springing up. Traveling circus," he snickered, red optics flashing in the bright sunlight. An eerie glow set against the large shadow cast by Road Rage.

(Though he wasn't much older than Calibrate - constructed in the 29th generation - he was still much larger. Larger, even, than some of the Veterans.)

"Don't you think that the officers would have caught wind of this by now? If it was true?"

Road Rage gave her a fleeting look. "You'll have to forgive her," he directed this bit to Vos, whose attention had been preoccupied with giving Calibrate a skeptical raise of the optical ridges. "She actually believes _Kaon's Finest_ are worth anything."

"There has never been a single time they didn't solve a case or imprison someone who had broken the law," she argued, the same argument (that she was tired of making - seriously, why did she even _bother_ defending people she didn't know all that well?), as per usual.

She knew, somewhere in the back of her processor, that it would be foolish to believe wholeheartedly and singlemindedly in the prowess of the officers. But as Biohazard always liked to say - _we all need something to believe in_.

Without that faith, she was certain she would be lost, confused, terrified of every shadow that crossed her path. Because without faith in the law of Cybertron, or in the justice of the Enforcer, or in the mercy of the Prime - her spark would fill with so much fear and uncertainty that she wouldn't be able to live in peace in her own home.

But Road Rage - she knew that while a healthy dose of skepticism was warranted regarding the order of their world, it was not advised to trust in no one and nothing. She didn't understand how he could sleep so soundly at night if he didn't believe in anything but himself.

Didn't that paranoia catch up to him in the darkest hours? Like it did to everybody else?

It was like he was immune to his own skepticism.

"Oh, _really_?" His tone caused her to reconsider. There was that case file she had read (without express permission - if anyone found out...) - about that mech with the grinding blades inserted into a chasm in his torso.

Then there was the fact that Soundwave was able to roam free after losing his composure and murdering a building-full of civilians...

"Okay, maybe _never_ is a strong word," she corrected herself, feeling sheepish and stupid.

The confounded expression on Vos' faceplate let them know that he hadn't the slightest clue what they were implying. "The only reason Vos sent to Kaon," he snickered, finding something he had said funny (though she, herself, didn't understand the joke), "is because officers supposed to be top of the line in field of duty. They don't trust Vos around civilians in less-guarded city."

"The officers of Kaon haven't really messed up, yet," Road Rage allowed. "But that doesn't mean they never will."

"I beg to differ!" They both seemed startled by her outburst. (Wow, she had even surprised _Vos_ \- and she had always thought nothing could knock him off guard!) "Don't you remember who serves here?"

"Yes. A couple of Veterans - big deal. They serve everywhere - it's like we can't get rid of them," he mumbled the last part to himself, though probably purposely making it loud enough for her to hear. As did Vos, who seemed almost delighted by this silent rage.

"If Road Rage wants to get rid of someone, he should have just said so! Vos has many, many ideas that could help." His excitement was unsettling and very disturbing.

Calibrate hurried to carry the conversation. She wasn't so sure she wanted to hear any of his _ideas_. "Not just any Veterans, Road Rage. A couple of the most elite. I mean, before transferring his bureau to Polyhex, _Ultra Magnus himself_ used to serve as Chief of Police here."

"I don't know why you're so impressed by him, Cali. He's the rudest son of a bitch I ever had the displeasure of meeting. Soon as he thinks you're up to something, even Primus can't change his mind. And forget trying to make it up to him if you make a bad first impression - that memory will stay with him for as long as he knows you - and it will mess up any chances you have of really doing something that matters. The guy keeps tabs on potential troublemakers, or so that's his excuse for ruining your life if you piss him off by _getting away with a crime_."

Calibrate wasn't sure what to say to that, but Vos seemed to be brimming with curiosity.

"You sound as if speaking from experience."

"That's because I am."

"And you got away with crime, then?" He appeared to be fascinated by this idea.

"Yes. Well - it was a misdemeanor, nothing serious. In fact, I don't even know why that's against the rules. It's ridiculous - he's just so uptight that it wouldn't surprise me if his officers had to ask for permission before going to the bathroom."

"The bathroom?" Calibrate didn't understand the terminology.

Road Rage had used it before, and she assumed it had something to do with waste.

"Yeah - it's organic terminology." She gave him a blank look, and he sighed. "See, that was a perfect joke that was wasted on you two, in all your ignorance."

"I beg forgiveness, my Liege," Calibrate's words dripped with sarcasm.

"You're forgiven," he dismissed the notion.

"What did Road Rage do?" Vos still didn't quite understand the story.

(And since he hadn't been the one to pay bail for Road Rage, it made sense that he had no idea what happened. Neither did anyone else Road Rage was friends with - except for Calibrate.

Because she paid the bail.)

"He did something really stupid," Calibrate said before Road Rage could explain.

Said mech threw up his servos in the air, exasperated. "Are you going to let me tell the story, or not?"

"Just as long as you tell it truthfully. It was a bit of a stretch to lock you up, but honestly, you should've let the officers conduct their investigation without sticking your nose into it."

"See? You know organic terminology, too. How precious."

She shot him a dark look, and he stifled a snicker.

"Right - getting on with it." He shifted, taking a sip of his cube, and turned his attention to Vos, who was watching him with no small amount of fascination. "See, I had been tipped off by a friend, Clipshot, who works alongside Ultra Magnus. He told me they were looking into a theft of important federal documents that shouldn't reach civilian hands - and that they were looking at a good friend of mine as a prime suspect. They caught him on camera - that was their claim."

"Mhm?" The other mech was enraptured with the story.

"So, because this suspect was a good friend of mine, I agreed to harbor him somewhere safe. We were spotted talking in the center of Iacon, but before the officers could reach us, I had allowed him to give them the slip. I told him where to go, and he bolted. Ever since then, I've been placed under scrutiny for allowing a suspect to escape and harboring him - all until the trial fell apart because there wasn't any concrete evidence."

"You said they caught suspect on camera," pointed out Vos.

"I did. I also mentioned that it was their _claim_. Doesn't mean it was true. They thought I had something to do with it - that I erased the evidence. They knew I was capable - I had built my symbiotes myself, after all. But they had no evidence of that, either. So they had to let me go."

"That was the most stressful month of my life," muttered Calibrate.

"I stayed with her until they declared a mistrial," he explained to Vos. Said mech gave him a puzzled look.

"But you did harbor suspect - you admitted to us just now."

"I did - but as I thought, the claim of evidence was a lie. I suspect the _evidence_ was a hoax. So, he was an innocent mech - and I did the right thing by protecting him from the long arm of the law."

"Yeah - that's great for you, Road Rage, doing the right thing and all, but next time you're planning to play the hero, I really suggest you don't. Eventually, they would have realized they had nothing on him, and they'd have to let him go. The law is blind, but it is fair. And you wouldn't be under scrutiny right now if you had just let them conduct their investigation. Next time something like this happens, while you're busy protecting someone else, who's going to protect _you_?"

He looked into her optics with his own, but she held her stance firmly.

Unwavering.

Her longtime friend sighed. "I suppose you're right. Like I said: make one mistake, you're ruined for life. Especially if _he's_ the one on your tail."

"That funny story. I know for fact if DJD had suspect, there no corner existing in whole universe they could hide in," Vos' tone was teasing, and she knew without asking that he was poking fun at the officers of Cybertron.

"But one difference remains between the officers and the Decepticon Justice Division," clarified Road Rage. "The officers have to follow protocol, and provide their suspects with certain rights - like a fair trial and judgment by a certified court of law. The DJD do not."

"Yes - you are right. So many rules. Too many for Vos to remember." Said mech rolled his optics, and then his expression suddenly brightened. "So, do you both think it's true? Rumors of gladiators rising once again?"

"Maybe - I just don't understand why anyone would have to resort to that line of work." Calibrate played with the rim of her cube. "I haven't heard of any particular concerns regarding unemployment. If there really _is_ something going on, I hope it's not for entertainment's sake. That's such a sick thing to derive pleasure from."

"Not everyone has the luxury of a choice, Cali," explained Road Rage. "Just the other day, I realized that if I had tiptoed any further into the line of fire, I would be out of a job right now. Being the suspect in a case, no matter how small, really narrows down your options. Sometimes, unjustly so. No one wants a convict teaching their children."

"Speaking of - " she changed the subject - mostly because she felt uncomfortable facing the idea of her closest friend facing discrimination and judgment from complete strangers. "How's it going with the kids?"

"The school had to be closed down momentarily - something about a block-wide blackout. I think there must be damage that hasn't been repaired yet in Velocitron's energon circuits. For the safety of everyone involved, they've asked that we hold off on schooling until the damage has been repaired."

"Really?" her optical ridges narrowed. "That's funny - I didn't hear anything about that."

"It's not serious - but an accident could be fatal. They don't want the news spreading out to the public. You know: it might cause widespread panic."

There was silence, and then -

"Vos, what are you looking at?"

The other mech had been staring fixedly in one direction, over Calibrate's rotator cuff.

"He's staring at Rung."

She turned, as fast as she could, and caught a fleeting glance at the lightly-colored mech.

Calibrate didn't have to narrate her thoughts aloud - they were written all over her faceplates.

Her expression had brightened considerably just at the sight of him.

"You're truly pathetic, you know that?"

"I am not!"

"Yes, you are." He shifted, placing his chin atop his folded servos. "I'm surprised he doesn't know, yet. He's usually so perceptive and keen on his surroundings that it's almost wrong how he doesn't see you giving him bedroom eyes."

"Shut up!" she shushed him, faceplates burning in a manner that was entirely uncomfortable.

Whirl wasn't too far - he was, in fact, talking with the very same mech she had been (very discreetly) admiring. If he heard anything that Road Rage said, just a small piece, she would never live it down. (He had apparently made it his goal in life to make her wish she had never been forged.)

"Oh, come off it. They can't hear us from there."

"You never know!"

"He's my doctor." Vos' sudden commentary surprised his companions.

"What?"

"I'm taking sessions from him, from mech with round optics."

("Those aren't his optics - " Road Rage shushed her with a single wave of the servo before she could finish correcting Vos.)

"As in, you've joined the Program?"

"Yes - but keep quiet. No mention of it. It could make me unreliable intern, and impossible to get license if superiors find out."

"I won't mention it," she promised, for the second time that day.

She was beginning to feel ill - keeping secrets wasn't something she liked to do.

And now she knew too much to keep straight in her helm.

Conduit. Road Rage. Roulette. And now this.

Her processor was spinning, and her tanks were churning.

She stood up, abruptly, and both mechs turned to give her a quizzical look.

(Though Road Rage seemed to understand perfectly without asking.)

"I need to - "

"Go. Get some air. I have to leave, anyway. Duty calls."

"I thought you said they closed down the school - ?"

He paused, silent. For a moment, no one said anything. She had the sneaking suspicion she had just caught him in a lie - and was surprised to feel like this, so suddenly. He had no reason to lie to her about that.

(Did he?)

"That isn't the only thing I do with my life, Cali."

That being said, he stood up and made his way towards the exit, walking past Rung and Whirl, who both turned to watch him leave. Rung's lips were pursed in a display of concern, and she found herself surprised, yet again.

And then remembered what Road Rage had said about Rung.

How he was usually so perceptive and keen.

But since when did Road Rage and Rung know each other?

More secrets, she realized. And this time, she had the distinct feeling that she was right before - maybe he _wasn't_ lying about the blackout, but he _was_ lying about something. Or omitting something else. Whatever was going on, he was keeping secrets.

But how dangerous could a secret _really_ be?"


	7. 05: Good Intentions

"You've a good heart. Sometimes that's enough to see you safe wherever you go. But mostly, it's not."

\- Neil Gaiman, _Neverwhere_

It was going to be a good day. No, a _great_ day.

(No! - a great _week_!)

Biohazard was determined to ensure this goal.

See, it had taken him vorns, centuries, but at long last, he had managed to acquire a working _hypodermic mnemokinetic tempering patch_ \- or, as his friends were calling it (because though it was rather simple, really, to remember, no one seemed capable of pronouncing its chosen designation), the _mnemo patch_.

Today was the day that he advertised its use - maybe, just _maybe_ , the scientific community could acknowledge his impact on Cybertronian society. Maybe, just _maybe_ , his past mistakes would no longer mar his credibility as an inventor.

As a scientist.

As obvious as it was, no one truly seemed to realize just how difficult it was to be a scientist, one with a well-paved career and steady payment, when there were such great icons of Cybertron's past who cast long shadows over any efforts made by the newer generations of creators.

He was of the first generation of newsparks, and yet, it seemed to him, no one really appreciated his efforts to make a difference, or even _noticed_ them. To be honest, he understood why. With models like Perceptor, and the infamous Shockwave - it was nigh impossible to make a splash in a flood of brilliance.

But he was going to be the first to do it. And if you asked him? (No one ever did.)

He deserved this victory, however small.

But that wasn't why he was doing this. He wasn't doing it for the fame, or the fortune.

He was doing it for Quicksilver, because she believed in him. He would hate to disappoint her when every day, that hope in her optics is what kept him going, and every night, it was the last thing he thought about before slipping into recharge.

Biohazard was also doing it for the Veterans - those of them who deserved a second chance, but whose grim memories and haunting nightmares, whose guilt and self-hatred, didn't let them move on.

He remembered it was like it was only yesterday - the conversation that inspired him.

 _"Has it come to anyone else's attention that our society is stagnant - still? One pede in the past and one in the future?"_

 _"I can't think of a single person who_ hasn't _noticed. Even the newsparks have come to realize that something is still very wrong."_

 _"Why does it have to be like this? Can't we do anything to help?"_

 _"Us? No._ This _problem is rooted in the darkest nightmares that cling to the processor, in the guilt that floods the spark and chokes off words that could be said but aren't. There's really nothing we_ can _do about loss, about grief."_

 _"Unless we could tamper with memories."_

 _"Yes, but let's say we tried - we already have a device, a method, that lets us alter the processor. But who is going to_ volunteer _for shadowplay?"_

 _"I didn't mean that..."_

 _"There is nothing else, Brainstorm. Nothing else we can do but watch our friends fall apart."_

But there _was_ something else they could do.

Something else _he_ could do.

Something else he was _going to do_ , without a doubt.

He hadn't said anything then, had only listened to their words, and it had been like his processor lit up, like a match. Inspiration had coursed through his circuits for the first time in centuries, and he had rushed home without another word (noticing the look his comrades exchanged, one of confusion, but being unable to stop to explain). He had work to do!

Quicksilver hadn't understood, not fully, why he was in such a tizzy, until he explained his ideas. He had thought she would giggle, or bring him down from his high with a reasonable explanation as to why his idea wouldn't work out, but she never failed to surprise him. She had grinned, and told him to work hard.

She was there for him, just like she always was.

Thinking about her, about that spark in her optics, about that quirky little grin that sent a thrill of excitement and joy through his systems - it made him want to drop everything and go see her, go talk to her about anything she had to say, and just watch her and remind himself how lucky he was to have her.

He didn't have to go very far to do just that. The door slid open to his lab, and in came his aforementioned gift from above.

Her optics were alight, gold standing out against the silver of her metal.

"Are you ready?"

"For?"

He combed his processor - was there something he was scheduled to do today?

"The briefing, Bio. The briefing." She wasn't exasperated - just pretending.

Quicksilver was a playful femme - he had come to expect all this teasing from her.

He would only know something was wrong if she behaved any differently.

(He could only pray that day would never come.)

"Was that today?" there was alarm evident in his voice, betraying the image of serenity he had been working so hard to portray over the past few cycles.

"Yes. It was definitely today. How could you have forgotten? Calibrate came by yesterday to ask about it, and you _yourself_ told her that it was today."

"It must've slipped my mind," he admitted.

(No matter how hard he combed, he _really_ could not remember that.)

(But why? His memory was usually impeccable. Unless...)

"Did we meet up at the Alibi last night?"

Her expression was a far cry from disapproving - in fact, she looked ready to burst into laughter at any moment. But she still managed to keep her voice steady, and serious, when she (halfheartedly) scolded him: "I did warn you to keep an optic on how much engex you had."

"Why did I do something so stupid?" He was sheepish, ashamed.

"We were celebrating the completion of the _mnemo patch_. Don't you remember?"

"I can't recall a single detail from last night. It's all a blur. I had assumed I had worked until late in the night, but I guess I was wrong."

"Well, thank your lucky stars I was there to stop you from embarrassing yourself. If you're going to get anyone to trust that you know what you're doing, you need better street cred than _the_ _drunken fool_."

A smile flickered across his features, and he saw the same look reflected in the gold of her optics. But before he could say anything, she was taking him by the arm and leading him out of his laboratory, up those chipped steps.

"Come along, Bio. You don't want to be late to your own presentation."

"What if I wanted to spend a little more time with you?" he protested half-sparkedly.

She gave him a lopsided grin. "We have the rest of our lives for that."

"Yes, of course - you're right." He conceded, and when she had turned her helm to giggle, he snatched a kiss, just a touch of the lip components. Her optics shuttered, and she gave his servo a light squeeze.

"Enough games, Biohazard. I received the reminder maybe ten minutes ago from the Prime, himself. And according to him, you're _already_ late."

* * *

And late he was, indeed.

The briefing had been scheduled to take place in the heart of New Kaon, at the midday hour.

By the time the two of them had arrived, a crowd had already begun to form.

And the Prime was indeed waiting for him at the foot of the podium, blue optics blazing in the Cybertronian sun. He was wearing a blank expression, mouth moving as he no doubt carried on a conversation with his companion, a doctor everyone knew just by first glances - Ratchet.

(Whom Biohazard had already met, several times, prior to this cycle.)

He could already see some faces he knew - Clandestine (there to support him, no doubt), Perceptor and Brainstorm (his sources of inspiration, appearing no doubt to be very fascinated by the topic at hand), and several officers whom he recognized as Autobots.

Bumblebee being the visage that he knew well enough to pick out in a sea of color.

And then there was Megatron of Tarn, former leader of the Decepticons. Whom he could say he was honestly surprised to see. He and the former warlord had once been close, yes, but lately, it seemed he could do or say nothing right. Biohazard had been alarmed to realize he had fallen out with the larger mech. (Especially since he could not remember having done anything to offend or harm him.) In light of this development, he did not think Megatron had come to support him.

(Partly because Megatron had insisted he leave well enough alone instead of supporting his ventures into the creation of the _mnemo patch_.)

(So why _was_ he here?)

The Prime spotted the two of them (he and Quicksilver, that is) just before Biohazard could detour and ask the warlord, himself. Without a second to spare, he approached the duo, gait impressive and stance held with every bit of respect and authority that he had come to earn throughout his long years as Prime.

The doctor chose to stay where he was, optics narrowed as he caught sight of the scientist.

Both parties watched each other warily, though Biohazard eventually broke the pseudo-staring-contest. Mostly because he had never particularly enjoyed confrontation of any kind.

"Biohazard, Quicksilver."

The Prime greeted them, and Biohazard lifted his gaze to lock optics with the taller mech.

"I realize I am awfully late. Had it not been for the mercy of this lovely femme, I would have forgotten entirely about this event," he gestured accordingly, and the Prime's blue optics twinkled with mirth.

"How fortunate that the two of you should have each other to lean on, then." The former Autobot leader held out his servo, a common gesture of respect and acknowledgment.

"How fortunate, indeed." And Biohazard accepted this gesture by taking said servo and giving it a firm shake. The Prime released his grip, but pulled the scientist closer by a mere klik.

"I wish for you the best of luck. Primus knows we would be lost without the ingenuity of mechs like yourself."

Biohazard exchanged a smile with the Prime in gratitude. "I'll try my best."

That being said, he stepped aside to let the Prime pass, though the Prime's last words to him were rather solemn. "That's all anyone can do." The Prime decided that enough had been said, then, and made his way towards the back of the crowd, no doubt seeking out his former Autobot allies. (Such as the yellow scout.)

And Biohazard took a deep breath before making his way towards the podium, feeling his bondmate give his servo one last squeeze before making her way through the crowd to join Clandestine.

He didn't look the doctor's way while passing him, something he knew Ratchet would be grateful for. They'd encountered enough unpleasant run-ins with one another, as it was.

(The fact that Calibrate seemed to truly believe Biohazard was a popular mech was laughable, at best - he could never remember clicking with anyone aside from the regular crowd at the Alibi.)

(And Megatron, once, but that old friendship had long soured.)

(And Brainstorm - but _that_ mech was an odd one; that much, he could admit.)

(What did that say about _him_?)

The climb to the podium was a short one, spent taking deep vents of the sweetly scented air around him. _Energon candies_ \- someone had brought along a snack.

One look out over the crowd confirmed his suspicions: Calibrate had arrived, with Road Rage, and - to his surprise (he had never seen those two step outside the Alibi) - Blackjack, as well as his most faithful customer, Roulette.

The young femmling was handing out wrapped energon candies to anyone within five feet - including Megatron, who could not look more surprised. He took the candy with an offhanded gesture, and tilted his helm in gratitude.

Her smile was contagious - and not for the first time, Biohazard pondered just how very blessed he was to have these people in his life. (Clandestine had finally seen the regular crowd from the Alibi, and was making her way over with Quicksilver.)

He watched this all from his place atop the podium, but eventually, he forced himself to look away and to focus on the task at hand. He approached the microphone and offered the distracted crowd a practiced greeting.

"Good morning! Citizens of Kaon, visitors from afar, friends, family," he grinned, blue optics alight in the sun's rays. The wave of silence rushed through the crowd, and now, countless helms were turned his way, attentive optics and audial receptors attuned to his words. "I am glad to welcome you to this little briefing of mine, for it means that enough people are wondering just what it is that this kooky old mech is up to."

There were a few stray laughs.

He encouraged this with an easy grin of his own. "I'm certain you're all wondering what exactly it is that I've had my friends and family advertise for you. The _mnemo patch_ , as it's come to be called. Well," he gave a flourish of a gesture with his right servo, beckoning for his experimental aide (and volunteer mnemosurgeon), Mnemosyne, to join him onto the small stage. She did so, holding up a cylinder-shaped device with a steady green glow.

It was adorned with needles, each being stored in small pockets along the lengths of the device. Those needles' tips, he knew personally, were coated with the same green substance that powered the device. Synthetic energon. Enough to, if used properly, carefully seal the synaptic receptacles of whichever memory-containing components that the patient specified.

(Without permanently damaging said receptacles, thus ridding the patient of those memories for the rest of their lives, which could become a problem later if they felt they wished to undo the seal. The consequences could even include alteration of certain characteristics that were learned by experience. Some people did not want to lose who they were - they just did not desire the terrible nightmares that came along with it.)

"Let me begin by informing you, firstly, that its given designation is much, much longer. It is known as the _hypodermic mnemokinetic tempering patch_. Of course, I do not expect everyone here to commit that to memory. That task in itself might give you nightmares."

Another round of giggles and laughter.

A few whispers here and there.

(Especially coming from his colleagues in the scientific community of Kaon.)

(Judging by the expression on their faceplates once learning the proper name of the device, they were beginning to come to terms with its purpose.)

(Needless to say, Brainstorm looked to be absolutely delighted and excited, whereas Perceptor, on the other hand, was much more concerned with the implications.)

"What does it do?" asked one of the members of the crowd. Perceptor seemed to tune in, suddenly, very much curious. (He could only hope it wasn't what he _thought_ it was. This had the potential to become a dangerous situation - because then _their_ accusations wouldn't be completely biased and off-point.)

"Well, as I told my darling friend when she asked the same question, it is a concept that is heavily borrowed from the organic ideals of lobotomy. It is a neurosurgical procedure, and in the servos of a practicing, licensed mnemosurgeon, one can isolate and encrypt certain particles of memory in the data core of a CPU processor. The green hue is attributed to the fuel source - _synthetic energon_. It is altered to fit just one purpose - sealing the paths created between the synaptic receptacles of memory-containing components in a mech or femme's processor. The reason it is sealed, instead of permanently damaged or erased, is so that the patient in question may always undo the procedure if they wish. Not to mention that the consequences of a permanent procedure would be too risky. The needle, whichever one is used, injects a virus that does the sealing, or encrypting, as I like to say, and _locks down_ the unwanted memory - at least, until further notice."

Perceptor appeared to be alarmed by the explanation. (The procedure was a safer version of what Chromedome did to himself to erase the memories of his former conjunx endurae. That being said, it could be abused, malpractised, in the wrong servos. Surely, there would be background checks done on anyone attempting to take hold of such a device? Not just _any_ surgeon with an alleged _license_ could do as they pleased, right?)

Biohazard received plenty of blank expressions from the majority of his audience, save for those who understood his explanation. Such as Clandestine, Ratchet, Brainstorm, Megatron, and Quicksilver. (She was such a smart femme - he had never _quite_ understood why she chose to delve into journalism instead of the sciences. She would have been at ease among the complexities involved, he liked to think. She had explained to him, on plenty an occasion, what several of Senator Shockwave's devices were capable of accomplishing, devices even the processors of Perceptor and Brainstorm didn't quite understand.)

"In simpler terms, it is a device, a method, to rid any given patient of unwanted memories, however temporarily. The purpose of this venture is to aide countless of our citizens in adjusting to everyday life by rooting out any problematic memories, and, with just one source code, wiping clean their slates. In that manner, they can truly start anew. No memory is too problematic to seal - that much, I can _promise_."

That being said, there was a burst of chatter among the members of the crowd, some shouting amongst themselves, others confused, and others yet concerned. But one word among all others stood out - _shadowplay_.

Something in his spark contracted. They were accusing him of _shadowplay_.

(Had he not required their respect and understanding, he might have thrown a fit.)

(Why on Cybertron did everyone _insist_ he was legalizing _**Shadowplay**_ once more?!)

He held up both servos, maintaining his composure.

"I am not attempting to revive the practice of shadowplay. This will not be something that is forced upon any of you, no matter the crime committed or trouble caused. This is a procedure that is 100% optional, unless enough of your caregivers agree that it is in your best interest, in the case that your memories are causing you serious harm. And as I stated very clearly, the procedure can be undone. The seals can be removed. Anything done by these needles can be undone."

"Is it the needles or the substance that hold the power to do that?"

He turned his helm to face the mech who had asked. Thundercracker.

A former Decepticon. ( An old friend.)

"Neither. The synthetic energon is merely a fuel source, so that the body does not reject the procedure, or the needle does not dry out and cause irreparable damage. And the needle is simply a conductor of the encryption virus. It is the source code that holds all real power over the seal."

"Can the source code be downloaded into certain parts of the processor without the procedure?" this was another member of the crowd.

He offered a smile. A laugh. "Not unless you want to wipe out the entirety of your memory data core. If it were that easy, it would not require a procedural format. Precision is needed in order to get the job done, and done _correctly_. Without nasty consequences."

"How will you know you had the procedure without the memory of what you erased?"

"Because you will not forget having the procedure. You will remember going in to get the procedure done - you just won't remember what you had erased. And in order to solve that little dilemma, each patient will be handed additional files, aside from the usual follow-up, to remind you which section of your data core you had sealed. If at any point, you decide to confront those memories yourself, or you decide you would rather live with than without, then you can schedule an unsealing procedure. If the mnemosurgeon handling your unsealing did not handle the original procedure, all data regarding the section or sections of your data core that were sealed will be handed to them in an orderly fashion."

That statement being made, a thousand more questions began to burst at the seams.

Biohazard sighed - this was going to be a long morning.

* * *

"You handled that well."

Biohazard could honestly say he wasn't surprised that the first one to approach him was Megatron. The briefing session had been ended on (what he hoped was) a positive note. "Did I? I was beginning to become worried that I might not have all the answers the good people sought."

"If you faltered, it was not noticeable. That is a commendable trait."

"At the very least, yes?"

"At the very least," agreed the (admittedly) much larger mech.

There was a moment of silence that passed between the two of them.

"How have you been?" this time, it was Biohazard who spoke up, voice soft.

The former warlord huffed, the barest hint of a smile on his (scarred) lip components.

"I've still _alive_ , so I suppose all is well."

"Glad to hear it." The scientist was beaming, and something ached in the warlord's spark. A reminder of why he tended to avoid the other mech. The pain was not as bad as it once was, but it still burned.

It was best to finish this as soon as possible and leave, before he did something he would _never_ stop regretting - synaptic receptacle sealed or _not_.

"Is there any chance I can convince you not to go through with this foolish venture?"

Biohazard's expression shifted. He appeared to be almost hurt by the lack of faith.

(What the younger mech didn't understand was that Megatron _did_ believe in him - it was the people around them he didn't believe in. Some mechs would do anything for an advantage. He could vouch for this truth because he _himself_ once lived by it.)

"However _foolish_ it is, old friend, I am not doing this for myself. It is for the peace and happiness of a recovering society - it is for the sake of the dawn of a new age. I cannot give in to the fear of what might come. What else can promise the people a new reason for hope, a second chance, if not a break from the nightmares that plague them?"

"You believe that this will work."

"I do."

Both mechs watched each other, Biohazard's expression tilting towards wariness.

"I do not know what I have done to displease you, Megatron. I had thought we were friends, once. Is it so difficult to ask you to believe in me?"

The warlord emitted a low growl, and took a step back, then paused.

After kliks of careful deliberation, Megatron sighed, a gesture of defeat.

Of conceding to Biohazard's words.

"It is not that I have no faith in you."

"Then _what_ is the problem?"

"Cybertron, itself. Don't you _realize_ \- there are people out there who can cause real harm with any given advantage. And this - you are handing them a _weapon_! A tool to ensure submission! Who is to say Iacon's precious senate won't revert back to its old ways and remake Shadowplay with the device you meant to be used for good? The original intent is not always the given usage."

"I - I can't say for certain. You're absolutely right, Megatron. But there is _always_ a risk that comes with progress. We can't be afraid to invent, to create, because of what _might_ happen."

Megatron gave him a long look filled with regret.

"Don't say I didn't warn you."

Before Biohazard could protest, the former warlord had stepped aside, and disappeared into the crowd. The scientist exvented.

Megatron always sounded like he knew more than he was letting on - that wasn't new.

(So why did he feel a chill in his very spark, as if for once, _Megatron_ was right, and _he_ was wrong?)

The Prime did not give him _nearly_ enough time to consider this.

"Is something wrong, my friend?"

"No - well, _not exactly_. Just a premonition of bad things to come."

"You've spoken to Megatron?"

The Prime did not look half as worried as Biohazard felt.

"Yes." The glum feeling in his spark was beginning to spread outward, darkening his (usually) bright blue optics. "I just don't understand. I had come to think we had moved past initial distrust and hostility, and yet, he doesn't seem to trust or even _like_ me very much."

The other mech's blue optics were solemn, as was his expression. His body language betrayed his hesitation, however. He knew something, but wasn't saying.

"I need you to trust me, Biohazard, when I tell you that the problem isn't that he doesn't like you. In fact, I'm willing to vouch that he cares for you much more than he's cared for another living being in vorns. That is, perhaps, why he deems it necessary to warn and caution you when he perceives that you are in danger, or that you are embarking on a path he cannot follow you down."

"Your words are as elusive as ever, Prime."

(It wasn't a lie. Biohazard could comb his processor all he liked - no matter which way he looked at this, he still couldn't understand what the other mech meant. _Was_ he behaving foolishly about this _mnemo patch_ business? Would he live to regret his own ingenuity?)

"Have I not already asked you to call me by my name, my friend?"

Biohazard offered a playful grin. "You know how forgetful I can be, Optimus."

"Indeed I do. And yet, you never fail to surprise me." The Prime accepted the scientist's grin with a nod of the helm. His posture relaxed, ever so slightly. "I am certain someone must have mentioned this before, but still, I must say so myself: you handled this situation very well. Better bots have cracked under the pressure."

"It's not easy to remember yourself under accusations of replenishing the act of shadowplay." Biohazard's helm hurt just to think about it, about the conviction in that Veteran's faceplates. Whoever it was (he hadn't recognized the other mech, not even in the faintest traces of historical archives) had truly believed his own words.

And he wasn't alone in that belief. As soon as he had spoken, others had echoed his call.

 _Shadowplay_.

"It _is_ difficult to be accused of that which is not your intention," the Prime offered his sympathies. "But these are the trials of those who would remake Cybertron for the better. What is important is that you, and your kin, do not give in to the pressures and therefore forfeit the work that could lead Cybertron into a new Golden Age."

"From what I have heard, a new Golden Age is perhaps not what Cybertron needs," Biohazard's smile was rueful. He understood the Prime's intentions, but Megatron was right, in the end. There were certain paths that Cybertron needed to avoid if it wished to keep the war in the past.

And unfortunately, what had been construed as a good era for the elite, was an era of tension and waste for many others. No, they did not need a new Golden Age. They needed something better.

Something new, and unexplored - like the farthest reaches of space.

(Not that expansionism would be a swell idea, either - everyone knew what had happened when Nova Prime had attempted _that_.)

The Prime's expression shifted. He was smiling, now. "Of course. My wording was perhaps _inefficient_ , but the message was received, I hope?"

"Yes," the scientist said with a laugh. "I understood, perfectly. I was only teasing."

"You are in an exceptionally good mood," observed a voice from their right.

Both mechs turned, coming to face the notorious red-plated medic and his colleague, as well as the Prime's longtime ally and friend, Ratchet. It was the former Autobot whom had spoken. The other medic's matching red optics shone with mirth, but he said nothing.

"Is there something wrong with that?"

"No," the older bot huffed. "Just odd. I was so sure you wouldn't last a moment longer under the barrage of accusations. And here I was, worrying for nothing. You seem perfectly fine to me."

"I didn't particularly enjoy the direction of the common suspicion, but it's not in my place to scold others for the way they act. I can do nothing but try to alter their judgment with proactive movement in the right direction."

"You're a smart one, aren't you?" the red-plated medic took Ratchet's silence as an opportunity to speak up.

"I should hope so. Otherwise, this project of mine has the potential to go horribly wrong." Biohazard offered a smile, and then a tilt of the helm. "I don't believe we've met. And you would be - ?"

"Knock Out. At your service. I _do_ so love the innovative mind."

"I'm glad to have earned your respect in that manner, then. I, in turn, love to innovate."

Both parties exchanged a grin, and a shake of the servos.

"I'm not certain how we've not met, before. You seem to be one of the few remaining mechs who isn't afraid to make some progress on this Primus forsaken planet."

To that, there was a grumble in protest from Ratchet, though the Prime seemed to agree, at least partially, with this statement.

"The situation is indeed unfortunate. Many cannot seem to place aside their terrors of the war and the tension among the citizens of Cybertron prior to the outbreak of turmoil. They fear stirring up displaced hostilities by stepping too far with their ideas, and thus making the wrong people uncomfortable." The Prime placed a sturdy servo on the shoulder plate of the smaller scientist. "This is why we are most fortunate to have been blessed with your mind, Biohazard. You are take care to avoid unnecessary strife with your steps towards Cybertron's future, but you do not let them hinder your progress. If anything, they seem only to stir your determination and resolve to rid Cybertron of such tensions, once and for all. This is an evolutionary step you are taking. Small in the optics of many, but, overall, large in the grand picture that is the achievement of peace and security among Cybertron's citizens."

"And trust. Establishing trust is _imminent_ with such a procedure," added Knock Out.

"Yes. Trust. It is a goal that once seemed improbable, nearly impossible. And yet, you are taking the first step in that direction," agreed the Prime.

"So long as we take care that such a device does not fall into the wrong servos."

That was Ratchet, voicing his worrying observations (at last - he had maintained his silence for far too long, as far as _he_ was concerned). The other two were silent, but Biohazard was not.

This was not the first time someone had implied that his device might fall into the wrong hands. "I don't know of anyone who would wish to use this device to harm another. I am certain malevolent intentions _do_ exist, but knowing where to strike to cause the most harm would take organization, and careful strategic planning, as well as the necessity to have an endgame goal. It doesn't sound to me as if any single bot would be capable of achieving such ends, unless there is something I am not being told. In which case, if this falls into the wrong servos, I am not to blame, for I was never properly informed of _all_ the dangers."

Both bots stared one another down, but in the end, Ratchet turned his optics away, first.

"I suppose these worries are just those of a paranoid Veteran."

"There is nothing wrong with - " Biohazard's words were soft, but the medic didn't let him finish. He turned his back on the others.

"Yes, there _is_. That's why this device has come to be, isn't it? Because if there is to be a perfect Cybertron, our problems can't keep getting in the way."

Before the scientist could protest that malicious statement (it sounded almost as if he were being accused of being an elitist - Biohazard had met such bots, yes, whom revered his project as an end to the Veterans' constant habit of getting in the way of progress, but that did not mean he thought that way, as well!), the older medic was gone, with Knock Out in tow.

(Though not before the medic offered a salutary goodbye, wearing an unreadable smirk that made Biohazard every bit as uneasy as if the bot had just issued a silent threat.)

(Which he couldn't be sure wasn't exactly what happened. He didn't know the mech - who was to say his words of encouragement weren't falsehoods meant to distract from the truth of his threatening gaze?)

(Frag, now _he_ was getting paranoid. Why did Megatron and Ratchet ever have to open their mouths to dump their fears onto him? Now _he_ was beginning to reconsider opening the device and its corresponding procedure to the medical field.)

"Do not pay my old friend too much mind, Biohazard," the Prime's voice was soft, startling him because he had (somehow) forgotten the former Autobot leader was still there. "He has much to think about, and much to fret over. The years have not been kind to him, and he has seen too much of what war can do to _good_ people. I have every faith in your vision. Perhaps, with our guilts assuaged and nightmares exiled, we can finally begin to believe in something other than animosity, and we can finally lay down our weapons, permanently, and allow the peace that Cybertron deserves."

That being said, he, too, ducked into the crowd. Biohazard watched the red-and-blue bot disappear into a sea of purples, greens, and blacks, until it seemed he had never laid a pede on that particular patch of metal beside him.

And then came Perceptor, along with that infamous look of disapproval scrawled all over his faceplates. As well as Brainstorm, the ever-enigmatic briefcase of lore attached to his servo. Almost as if he was forged holding it.

(Not once had Biohazard ever seen him let go of it.)

"Are you certain - ?"

"That this is a good idea? I'm beginning to think it's not," Biohazard was glum, despondent, for good reason. Yes, the Prime believed in him. But the Prime had believed in plenty, and been let down plenty. Who was to say Biohazard wouldn't be the next person to follow in that pattern?

"No, don't even _say_ that! Don't even _joke around_ like that!" Brainstorm's outburst startled him, but not as much as the other mech's (unceremonious) act of grabbing onto his shoulder-pads to keep him locked in place, forcing him to look at the other bot. (Though his expression betrayed his surprise.) "Don't you get it? This is ingenious! This is evolutionary! This is the next step in science! Imagine - with enough time, you'll come to be known as the bot who revolutionized psychiatry, the bot who invented a new therapeutic treatment, the bot who saved countless mechs (and femmes) from the darkness in their own helms! Never again will people have to shoulder their worst regrets! Never again will people be unable to trust or love because of the wrongs done to them that they cannot forget, no matter how hard they try! You are Cybertron's next _Shockwave_ , Bio! Don't pass up that chance!"

"I hadn't realized his advancements in mnemosurgery were purely for the sake of _fame_ ," Perceptor's tone was wry, increasingly disapproving. Biohazard placed a single servo over Brainstorm's.

"No. It isn't." He directed this bit to Perceptor, who only huffed but said nothing else. (Partly because he didn't give the other scientist the chance to get a word in, edgewise.) Then, "But, I appreciate your encouragement, nonetheless, Brainstorm. I don't know why I was so ready to give up. You're right - this isn't just for me. This is for the people who need it. I can't give in to the fear that someone else might abuse my ideas. It wouldn't be right. I owe it to the people who are counting on me to help them take that much-needed step towards personal happiness and liberation from the memories that haunt them. I know some feel as if the senate, or whoever, might use it to make people forget that they've been wronged so that they will be easier to control, but that is _not_ why I created the mnemo patch. I created it so that people can control _themselves_ , without wondering if mercy is a weakness, given their vivid memories of when having, or trying to have, mercy has hurt them."

Brainstorm released his grip with a twinkle in his golden visor.

"Yes. Yes, _exactly_. I am so proud to call you my _colleague_ , Bio. Who would've thought? A genius - just like us!"

Perceptor mumbled something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, " _Self-proclaimed genius, that is_." Before Brainstorm could tell him off, Biohazard laughed and clapped both bots on the shoulders.

"And I'm glad to call you both my mentors! Without your lessons, and painstaking patience in explaining _everything_ I ever needed to know, I wouldn't be standing where I am today! On the precipice of _real_ improvement!"

Perceptor flushed, shrugging off his servo and turning with a clearing of his throat, while Brainstorm merely basked in the praise. "Well, it seems _you've_ got some things to teach _us_ , this time around," stated the scientist/sniper.

Biohazard beamed at the two of them. Yes, they were always at odds with one another, but he well and truly loved the both of them to death. (Hopefully not _literally_.) "I would be honored."

"I don't doubt that."

Yet _another_ voice.

This one, he distinctly recognized, though until now (excluding the question during the briefing), the two of them had never spoken to one another, _in person_. (They usually only spoke over public comm links.)

"Thundercracker! My old friend!" Biohazard was delighted to see him, and really be given the chance to catch up with him without the interference of private advertisements every five minutes.

"Bio," the two of them exchanged handshakes. (It seemed Biohazard was receiving a lot of those, today.) "It is a pleasure to see you. I am glad to see that you appear to have recovered from that spell of illness, when last we spoke."

"I did tell you it was merely a category 1 cyber-virus, did I not?"

"One never knows what a cyber-virus, regardless of category, could open up the immune systems to. I once knew an ally who dissolved due to a combination of the yellow rust and an alleged _category 1_."

 _Ally_ was the politically correct term for an old teammate, dating back to the factions of the Cybertronian civil war. Though it was well-known that certain notorious bots belonged to either/or faction, it wasn't encouraged (and was, in fact, frowned upon) to speak about the matter, directly.

(Or ask too many questions, for those who were newsparks of the recently revived Cybertron.)

"That sounds like a bit of bad luck, there. Were the two of you close?"

"I can't say we were. I couldn't stand the sight of the bot, and I believe the feeling was mutual. Suffice to say, I was not sad to see him go."

Biohazard laughed - good ol' Thundercracker. Not afraid to say what others didn't dare.

(For whatever reason, the Veterans preferred to respect the dead.)

(The former _Autobots_ , that is. He wasn't certain the _Decepticon_ veterans felt the same.)

"No sentimentality for the dead, I see."

"It would be foolish of me. He hardly lives to get his payback. And I'm certain that were he standing in my place, he would say the same - probably _worse_. Though were I to be the one who had perished, you would have no friend of the former Decepticons, aside from Megatron. He was not clever enough to make friends in higher-thinking places. Not like I am."

"Didn't you hear? Megatron and I have parted ways."

He hadn't intended to sound so bitter, but he _still_ couldn't fully understand the Prime's words regarding the former warlord, and the ex-Decepticon _himself_ wasn't making the situation any easier to handle.

By this point in the conversation, he realized his colleagues had left him to his own devices. He understood that it was no insult to _him_ \- though the war had been _long_ finished, there remained a tension between former enemies.

(Had _he_ been in their place, he wasn't certain he could share the same _air_ with the bots whom had once shot at him with the intention to maim or kill - much less _hold a conversation_ with them.)

"Have you?" Thundercracker made a noise of contemplation. "I can't say I'm sorry to hear that. Never liked him much, myself. Always so quick to pull the trigger without asking the right questions. Not to mention an overall _afthole_ , if you ask me."

"No one _did_ ," teased Biohazard, to which Thundercracker responded with a light swat of the shoulder.

"No need to get snippy with _me_. It's _him_ who's causing trouble in paradise."

Now it was Thundercracker's turn to tease. Though Biohazard had never understood _why_. Megatron had never expressed an interest in escalating their relationship, and yet it seemed everyone else had assumed the two of them were bonded as conjunx endurae.

(He had never bothered to correct them after the third mistaken assumption - if they chose not to acknowledge Quicksilver, it was _their_ problem. More of her for _himself_ \- which was the way he liked it.)

"Not this again," he groaned in mock protest.

"What - are the two of you _really_ dancing around the obvious? _Everyone knows_ , you know. There's no point in hiding it."

"I'm not _hiding_ anything, Thunder. There's really _nothing_ going on between us. In fact, if he _really_ wants to escalate our relationship, he has a poor way of showing it!"

"No need to get so _defensive_. You know I'm only kidding. If it's of any consolation, I think Quicksilver is the perfect bondmate for you. You two were _meant_ for one another."

"You know about her?"

"Of _course_ I do. You two are never far apart from one another. Wherever she goes, you're sure to follow. And vice versa. How could I _not_ know about her?"

"Well, it seems not _everyone_ agrees that we're perfect for one another. Hardly _anyone_ acknowledges our bond."

"How unfortunate - but, I wouldn't advise you to rid yourself of this reputation. Take hold of it and use it to your advantage. Do you _realize_ what the rumors of being bonded to Megatron could _do_ for you? For your _protection_? The war is long over, but that does not mean anyone is willing to oppose Megatron, or anyone deemed dear to him."

Biohazard blinked, and then narrowed his optics, playfully. "I didn't realize you were such an opportunist, Thundercracker. Would you not rather seize the reputation for _yourself_?"

"No. Definitely _not_. But since it already exists in _your_ case, might as well make _use_ of the situation." Thundercracker made a grand flourish. "Moving on, before this steps over _unpleasant_ boundaries."

"Yes, _please_ do."

"Surely, you have heard of Shockwave?"

Biohazard snorted. "Who _hasn't_? Universe-wide celebrity, _he_ is."

"He would be _very_ much interested in what you have going on here."

"Should I be proud of that observation, or worried?"

" _Both_. Definitely both."

Both bots were silent for a moment, and then Thundercracker turned his helm, suddenly looking very concerned. "Oh, dear."

"What? What is it?"

"It's Banshee. He's headed our way."

"Should I be worried about that?"

"Yes. _Very_. Be careful what you say around him, and no matter what you do, _**don't**_ let yourself trust him." That being said, the former Decepticon scientist slipped away, almost as if avoiding the approaching mech. (Which, judging by his commentary, wasn't too far-fetched of an assumption.)

"Greetings! Biohazard, is it?" His voice was familiar. When he turned to face the bot, he recognized him off the bat.

" _You're_ the one who started those whispers! The ones about shadowplay!"

"Yes. Forgive me for causing you unneeded stress. I just thought you should know what the word on the street is." The other mech gave him what appeared to be an apologetic smile. "I also thought it'd be best to keep you on your toes. Never know what kind of argument an opposing force to your project might throw at you, right? Might as well start with the worse accusation to get you ready for the opposition."

Biohazard was wary, remembering what Thundercracker had told him.

But if he trusted the biased perspectives of every single person who warned and cautioned him against other bots, he wouldn't have very many friends. Especially not Road Rage - _so many bots_ had warned him against the younger mech.

(Which was a fragging shame - sure, Road Rage was full of trouble and controversial opinions, but that didn't mean the bot was a bad person! Cybertronian law afforded him those rights to think and say what he pleased! It would be a _hypocrite's_ actions to deny him the same rights that were afforded to everyone else, simply because his opinions did not _go over well_.)

So he decided (foolishly) to give this Banshee character the benefit of the doubt.

"Well, it is the intentions that count, as I always say."

(Though Megatron liked to say that _the road to hell was paved with good intentions_.)

(It was his favorite thought to speak aloud, really - Biohazard had _no idea_ where he learned that concept. When he had asked, the former warlord had only said that it was an organic saying from a planet very far from Cybertron, a planet called _Earth_.)

(Nonetheless, Biohazard thought it was a terrible thing to say.)

"There is no sinner like a young saint, as they say."

" _What_?"

Speaking of, there went another weird saying!

"Oh, it's not something _everyone_ says. I'm just talking without thinking - see, it's something _I_ like to say." The other mech laughed. "Sometimes, the road to hell is paved with good intentions. And this one, I'm _certain_ other people say."

"You're right about _that_ \- that's a personal favorite of a friend of mine."

"Megatron?"

Biohazard was startled, once more. "I - yes - but how did you know?"

"I'm not wearing this badge for nothing," he indicated to a faded out insignia. Decepticon. This mech was a Decepticon. No _wonder_ Thundercracker knew who he was.

"You're a _veteran_?"

He was surprised. The mech didn't _look_ the part. His faceplates were young, refreshing.

His optics were trusting, friendly. No _Veteran_ looked like that.

"Does that surprise you?"

"Truthfully? Yes."

"Really?" the other bot laughed, an easy, light sound. "Does it surprise you more that I'm a veteran, or that I'm a former _Decepticon_ veteran?"

Biohazard tilted his helm. "To be completely honest, I don't see the difference. Maybe other people see it, but I don't. Though they deviated from their path, in the end, the Decepticons did _exactly_ what they had set out to do, with help from the Autobots. Both parties were consequential in ridding Cybertron of its oppressive functionist council."

Banshee (?) appeared to take his words in stride. "You're not wrong," he allowed. "I have always wondered when it was, exactly, that Megatron lost sight of his mission, and how, as well as _why_ , the Autobots picked it up. That exchange remains a mystery to me."

"It remains a mystery to _everyone_."

"I suppose it does." The former Decepticon grinned. "I'm actually _glad_ to hear that someone doesn't decide that I'm guilty as sin as soon as they see my badge. You're a real diamond, you know that?"

Biohazard didn't bother hiding his own smile. "What's got you so interested in my project, anyways? Don't tell me _you_ think it's a bad idea, too."

Banshee placed a servo against the metal plating of his spark case. "What? Why I _never -_? You insult me, good sir."

Both parties laughed.

"No, the _mnemo patch_ is a terrific idea. It's brilliant, really. Shockwave would be proud. If he ever really knew what pride _felt_ like, that is."

"Really? Well. It seems the general public has agreed upon that consensus."

"In that case, I would take it to spark, if I were you."

"I'll be certain to do that."

Banshee laid a servo over his shoulder plating. "Trust you me, it would be wise not to take everything everyone says to you to spark. People get scared, and they don't like when other people are braver than they are. Or smarter. That's actually why I came. I heard the whispers. _Shadowplay_. That's what they're accusing you of. So, you gotta be willing to prove them wrong. And the only way to do that is to go through with this."

"You think so?" Biohazard's expression shifted. The more he contemplated Banshee's words, the more sense they made to him. He was right, and so was Brainstorm. Running away from this wasn't going to dispel the rumors. And it certainly wasn't going to help anyone. Cybertron needed the _mnemo patch_. It was high time someone gave the people what they were missing - to help them achieve inner peace.

"Yes. I do. And that is why I'm going to personally help you by volunteering for the first sentient test trial."

Shock coursed through his circuitry. If he already had a volunteer, that meant his project was _really_ in the works to be published by the turn of _this_ century! He was so much closer to fruition than he had previously thought.

He couldn't begin to express his gratitude in words. But he needed to make sure. He wasn't certain of whether his device would really have the intended effect, and any good scientist made sure the test subject knew what they were getting themselves into.

"Are you certain? If anything goes wrong, it will take time to correct the errors, and by the time the debugging process is finished, it may already be _too late_ for you."

"Hey, no, _shush_ , don't worry about it. I know the risks, and I know what I'm getting myself into. But every great step in progress for a better future sometimes needs someone to take a risk. And as it so turns out, that's my role to play, this time around." Banshee clapped the scientist on his plated back. "So, you don't stress your pretty little self about this, anymore, okie dokie? You do what you have to do, and I'll do the same. Who knows? Maybe I'm exactly what you need. Maybe you're smarter than you think, and the first trial will be a success, and so will every trial after it. And this will be just fine!"

"You're right. I'm sorry - I didn't mean to flip my case. It's just... I guess all those warnings are starting to get under my plating. I'm not ready to face responsibility for a horrifying accident." Biohazard rubbed his fingers against his helm, feeling a migraine quickly approaching. "Thank you. For everything, Banshee. It is people like you who ascertain Cybertron's bright future."

"No, _no_. I'm just doing what's got to be done. _You're_ the real genius here, Bio. So, we got ourselves a deal?" Banshee held out his servo, waiting for the shake that would seal the future of the _mnemo patch_.

And like an idiot, Biohazard suspected nothing, no foul play. He took that servo, and he shook on it. And somehow, he didn't realize that the growing dread in his spark was the byproduct of something not-quite-right that swept out from Banshee's unsettling smile.

"We have ourselves a deal."

* * *

By the time Biohazard was seeing Banshee off, most of the crowd had already dispersed. His friends were waiting for him near the entrance to the square, Calibrate's smile at the ready and servo raised in a beckoning wave.

The Prime offered him a nod of the helm as they passed one another by, two officers (former Autobots) following alongside their Prime. One of them locked optics with Biohazard, a curious glint in those bright blue optics, though he didn't say anything and continued after the other two.

Biohazard knew that mech. Optimus had introduced the two of them, before. Smokescreen. Almost-Prime, himself. During a crucial moment towards the end of the war, Optimus Prime had been bested for what appeared to be the last time, and he was barely clinging to life when the Matrix made its decision of his successor clear.

(Of course, Smokescreen had made his _own_ decision equally as clear when he used the Forge of Solus Prime to bring Optimus back from the breadth of death. He had rejected the Matrix. He hadn't wanted to take up the mantle.)

(Biohazard could understand that choice. He wasn't so sure he would've been able to take Optimus' place, not after the large shadow the other bot had cast with his leadership that would be difficult to step out of.)

Just like that, when he thought he was free to go, he was waylaid by none other than Lullaby, titan maintenance official in charge of supervising the health and actions of Omega Supreme. The bold markings laid against pale faceplates cried out the identity of her home-world.

Caminus. Many a bot had arrived from Caminus, as well as from varying Cybertronian colonies, to aide in the restoration of the world they called home. Lullaby had been placed in charge of an obscure cityformer, initially, but upon inspection of her credentials, she had been trusted to care for Omega Supreme, Autobot champion in need of companionship and aide. Since that moment in her life, she had never strayed too far from the titan's side.

Until now.

" _ **Lullaby**_? What brings you out to Kaon?"

He couldn't quite contain the surprise in his voice.

Her features shifted. She was smiling, now.

"You did, child. You were the one who invited me out here, yourself."

"I - yes, I suppose I did. I did not think you would be able to make it, though. I had assumed you would be preoccupied with Omega Supreme."

"He encouraged me to come, himself. Insisted that a friendship is something to be treasured, not taken for granted. And for that, I apologize. This is the first time I have shown my faceplates to congratulate and encourage you in your endeavors." She bowed her helm, but he wasn't having any of that.

"No, no, come on, Lullaby, don't be silly! I understood why - I _always_ have! You were busy with something very, very important to the success of our society! Titan and core maintenance is nothing to scoff about! In fact, that is why I'm surprised. In contrast to your duties, this meeting of mine was almost _asinine_."

"Do not say that. Whatever is important to you, is important to me. Such is the manner of friendship, my old friend." Lullaby took a step closer and placed a chaste kiss against his cheekplate. Once, that might have stirred up embarrassment, confused quickenings of the pulsing in his spark, but now that enough time had passed, he had come to expect this display of affection.

"Thank you, Lullaby. No matter what either of us says, this friendship is important to the both of us, and I am glad to call you friend. I appreciate your support."

Lullaby offered a pat of the servo against his shoulderplate.

"You have grown much since I last saw you."

"When last we met, I came up to your elbows!" Both parties laughed.

"And now, you tower over me."

"'Tis the miracle of growth."

Biohazard wrapped his arms around her in a quick embrace, before pulling away and offering a sheepish grin. "I am sorry to say I hadn't noticed you in the gaggle of people that showed up. Tell me the truth, as I trust you always have - were my words _truly_ good enough?"

"Yes. You have come this far for a good reason, Biohazard. Your ingenuity is no laughing matter. I am proud of you, and expect nothing less than your very best, today and every day to come."

"I am so glad you could make it, Lullaby! Must you be getting back soon?"

"Yes. I had just stopped by to congratulate you and excuse myself."

"Duty calls," both said in unison.

Lullaby granted him one last smile and embrace, and then turned on her heelstrut and was gone. That being finished, his friends finally surged forward.

"Bio, that was great! I am _so_ proud of you!" Quicksilver gave him a chaste kiss on his lip components, and he grinned, engines purring.

"It seems you're not the only one who thinks so!"

"That's because you were amazing! You really shot down those naysayers!"

That was Calibrate, beaming with pride.

"I _hate_ to break up the celebrations, but I have to ask - how do you know Megatron?"

Road Rage. His optics were alight with curiosity, suspicion.

"I met him when I was younger. The two of us have been friends ever since - or so I had _thought_. Lately, he's become very cold. Distant." Biohazard tilted his helm, thoroughly confused. "Why do you ask?"

"Calibrate tells me that she encountered him while she was putting up your advertisements."

"Speaking of - any _other_ volunteers that you know of?" Biohazard was quick to ask, now that he had been reminded.

" _Other_ \- ? Did you already meet one?" Calibrate inquired.

"Yes. A mech named Banshee, according to a good friend of mine. He approached me about the project, and we agreed to meet up for the first trial run tomorrow afternoon."

"Banshee? Who's that?"

"The mech you met with, other than Megatron," supplied Road Rage.

"How do _you_ know that?"

"You really think I'd trust you to be safe on your own?"

"You had me _**followed**_!?"

Before the two of them could begin to argue, as they always did, Biohazard held up a single servo. Both parties turned to him. "You've already met the mech?"

"Who, _Banshee_? Well, according to this creep, I _have_."

"Did he appear to be someone I could trust?"

Calibrate blinked. "Why are you asking _me_ that? You know what Road Rage likes to say - I have a _terrible_ judgment of character."

"I say it because it's the truth."

"No one even _asked_ you!"

"Why do you ask?" It was Clandestine who finally spoke up, this time. Her optics were narrowed, suspicion evident. "Did something happen?"

"Just something Thundercracker said," he dismissed the notion. "Maybe I'm being paranoid. All this talk of the patch landing in wrong servos..."

"With all due respect to Thundercracker, he's had _very_ different experiences with people than you have. You can't accept someone else's perception as truth."

"I suppose you're right, as per usual," Biohazard grinned. The remains of his suspicions and concerns began to ebb away, at last. "Silly me, behaving so foolishly. Everything will be just fine, right?"

"Right!" Calibrate and Quicksilver echoed. Though Road Rage turned his helm, optics alight with something that looked like guilt. It struck him as immensely wrong, but before he could ask, Blackjack finally spoke up, interrupting his train of thought.

"Alright, enough of that sap! Let's hit the Alibi - it's time to celebrate!"

"Why so early in the day?" Calibrate fretted.

("Do you even have to show up to the hospital, today?" Road Rage asked.

"No. Vos said he'd take my shift."

"So why worry about it?")

"I don't have work today. I called off. I thought this was going to take much longer," commented Clandestine, in response to the conversation between the two youngest members of the group.

"Great! I have to turn in early today. For the sake of having a clear processor tomorrow. So we'd better get this show on the road!" Biohazard cheered. Blackjack clapped his servo against the scientist's back.

"Great! Everyone, follow me!"

* * *

"You said you knew Megatron for some time now, right?"

Quicksilver hadn't been able to stop thinking about that.

"Yes. What about it?"

"Calibrate said he didn't seem happy to know that you were going through with the project. Is something going on between the two of you, Bio? Did something happen?"

"Oh. Not really, no. I mean - I guess I don't really know."

The scientist scratched at the back of his helm absently. "I thought we were on good terms, but lately, he's been worrying me with his sour attitude, almost like I've wronged him."

Quicksilver placed her servo over his. "No. Don't think like that. You've done nothing wrong, I _know_ you haven't. I have every faith in you, Bio, and you're a good mech. It's why I love you."

Biohazard stole a kiss, then and there, much to the amusement of Road Rage and Blackjack. "Get a room, you two," the bartender teased, sliding a cube of his infamous drink (named after himself, as he had concocted the high-grade cocktail after long years of trial-and-error) across the bar to the scientist.

Quicksilver stole the cube and downed the whole thing in one swig.

"So the two of you are friends, then?" Calibrate was surprised to hear it, considering the distinct look of resentment in those ruby red optics of the former warlord.

"I would hope so."

"Cali, are you alright? You look like you've seen a sparkeater."

Blackjack was looking directly at the youngest member of their group.

She let out a shaky exvent.

Now, it was Biohazard's turn to be concerned. "Did he say something untoward to you?"

"It wasn't him," she dismissed the notion, optics flashing with the memories of what she'd seen the previous day. It had been meant to be a relaxing day at Soundwave's side, and yet...

Perhaps they shouldn't have gone.

Poor Conduit - how could the two of them ever _begin_ to help erase those horrible images, those screams, from the processor of the child it she, _herself_ , couldn't forget it!

"Yesterday, at the Vein," she began, still trembling in the memory of the horror. "There was a mech. Half-dead. Missing whole sections of his protoform and armored plating... Almost like - like somebody tried to eat him while he was still alive."

"You were _there_?" Road Rage looked surprised.

"I wish I wasn't."

"Is this about - ?"

Everyone looked at Clandestine. She cleared her throat, and lowered her helm to peer into her cube. "One of my clients mentioned it."

"Really?"

"Yes. And he wasn't the sort to skim over the details."

"Sick fragging son-of-a-glitch," murmured Road Rage.

"He's part of the program for a reason, Road-ee. It's not to sit there and look _pretty_. Everyone who witnessed that horrible war needs help, _urgently_." Calibrate didn't say it to be rude. In fact, she looked to be very much sympathetic about it.

"Woah, woah, back up! _What_ happened?" Blackjack was torn between disgust and fascination. Everyone loved the macabre - it's why the news existed and flourished as it did.

"A mech teetering on the brink of death managed to crawl out into Center-City. They say he crawled out of the vein, unexpectedly. Missing so much of his wiring and protoform that it was a miracle he was still alive. Looked to be the work of _circuit parasites_ , but there were strange markings over the spark casing, as well as the processor. Some people are saying it was a sparkeater," explained Road Rage, holding out his cube for a refill.

"How'd he get into the vein, anyways? There's no way to get down there without falling to your death. And it's almost _impossible_ to climb back out, not without help," Clandestine inquired, pale blue optics filled with confusion and concern.

"Is this going to become an epidemic?" Blackjack didn't like the sound of that. "I swear to holy Primus, I am never stepping so much as a _toe_ out of this bar."

("An epidemic is _medical_. This would be something else," corrected Calibrate.)

"You know what _**I**_ think?"

No one groaned, but everyone wanted to.

There was that tone of paranoia, again, the one that Road Rage was infamous for.

" _ **I**_ think someone _deliberately_ dragged that mech down there. Handed him over to the parasites." Road Rage leaned back, straightened up.

He was ready for the dubiosity of his companions.

"What makes you say that?" asked Clandestine.

"Well, think about it - it's the perfect way to establish an alliance. You feed the monster, the monster not only lets you live - it helps you feed yourself, in turn. The sparkeater might have teamed up with them. It's an easier way to hit two birds with one stone. The parasites get their metal, and the sparkeaters get their sparks. No mess. No problem."

"What makes you think there's an _actual_ sparkeater just crawling around in the circuitry of Kaon without the cityspeaker finding out?" Calibrate folded her servos, skeptical.

"No one knows what a sparkeater looks like, moron. Not even the cityspeaker. Some people say they nearly perfectly resemble parasites. Maybe the difference isn't so obvious to someone who's become accustomed to working around _circuit parasites_."

"The only one who can attest to that is a crew member - or _two_ \- of the _Lost Light_ ," remarked Quicksilver. Already, Biohazard could see the story forming in her optics.

"What? You _really_ wanna go and expect direct results by asking one of _those_ idiots? I mean, go ahead. It's your choice. It's a waste of time, but it's not _my_ problem." Road Rage rolled his optics.

"Aaaaanyways," Blackjack waved them right along. "What happened next, Cali?"

"Well, at first, everyone around me froze. All except for Soundwave. He moved super fast. He was right next to me before I had a chance to blink. He pushed me back and something _ejected_ from his chest, something he called Laserbeak, and he told it to go get help. He told me to stay where I was, and, well, I wasn't exactly in a position to argue. I was too scared to say or do _anything_. He walked right up to that mech and passed over him, and just peered down into the Vein, staring, not saying or doing anything. I think he was waiting for whatever had mauled that mech to come out and try to finish the job. He looked about ready to fight. And then the officers arrived before anyone could do anything else. They closed off the area and sent a few troopers down into the Vein to check what was going on, they had the Cityspeaker come in to help them out with mapping their way through Kaon so they wouldn't get lost, it - it was chaos. A lot more movement in Kaon than I'd ever seen in _half_ my life."

"And Soundwave?"

"He - he was just _gone_. I have no idea where he went. One moment, he was there. Next, he wasn't. I didn't have enough time to look for him. I had to get - I had to get _out_ of there." Road Rage noticed the hesitation, noticed that she had left something out, or changed her mind about saying something, but he knew that whatever it was, she wasn't going to say. Not in front of everyone else.

(He'd have to get her _alone_ , later.)

"Okay. So it looks as if the authorities are handling it. That's good news."

Biohazard felt relief spread through his spark.

"Is it, though?" Road Rage crossed his servos.

Biohazard's optics narrowed. "Let me guess - you think they're in on it, too?"

"No. They're just not as capable as everyone _thinks_ they are."

Road Rage and Calibrate locked optics. Something about that (silent) communication made the femme pale significantly. She lowered her optics, after a klik or two.

"He's right. We can't just _assume_ they'll take care of it. Not without causing damage or pain in the process."

"What?" Biohazard squinted his optics. Those two were _definitely_ hiding something...

And the dread in his spark told him it wasn't some little-kid secret.

"I told Vos all about it," Calibrate hastened to move on.

"Did you? What'd he have to say about it?" Road Rage's tense frame relaxed.

"He laughed and said he wished he'd been there." Calibrate could not look any more disgusted, or creeped out. "He can be such a _creep_ , sometimes."

"He's _your_ friend. I told you not to waste your time with him. Don't you _know_ what he used to do for a living, idiot?" Road Rage clicked his glossa.

"What? Since you know _so_ much?" Calibrate snapped.

"He was part of the ever-elusive Decepticon Justice Division."

Clandestine's optics widened, and her helm snapped upwards. Suddenly, she appeared _very_ interested in their discussion. (Partially because she was wondering how many more members of the DJD had gathered in Kaon. This revelation gave her a sense of dread, and she wasn't so certain she should keep it to herself.)

"The _what_?" Calibrate blinked.

"Group of freaks who killed other Decepticons for a living," he gave her a meaningful look, and realization dawned in her faceplates. (Vos was an old teammate of Tesarus'! That meant that more than just _one_ mass murderer was on the lose! And she had spent time alone with Vos! Thinking about it sent shivers through her core - and not the _good_ kind.)

"Oh, Primus," Calibrate pressed her servos against her forehelm.

"Don't think about it too much," cautioned Road Rage. "You'll never trust anyone, again."

"Isn't that what you _want_?"

"No, I just don't want you to get hurt. You need to know what kind of person you're spending time with. Information is power." Road Rage leaned back into his seat. "I don't want you to wind up like me, Cali. I'm like this because too many people have stabbed me in the back with my own trust."

"Are you _sure_ you don't want to talk to someone about that?" Clandestine asked, voice soft. She placed a servo over the younger mech's. "You know I'm here for you, right?"

Road Rage shrugged her off, and then he was standing up, helm bowed so that his optics were obscured by the shadows cast over his faceplates. "I've got to get going. Places to go, people to see, you know? I'll catch up with you guys tomorrow."

Everyone exchanged worried looks, but no one said or did anything to stop him.

"Right, just be careful," Biohazard cautioned.

Road Rage gave him an odd look, an absent-minded grin. One that sent chills through his very core. " _I'm_ not the one you should be worrying about. Remember? Plenty of fragged up people out there. What you're working on sounds like a potential weapon, in the right situation. Be careful who you trust. Watch for the snake in sheep's clothing."

That being said, he promptly turned and left the bar.

Biohazard blinked. "Okay, am I the _only_ one who was creeped out by that?"

"Ehh, it's just him being paranoid again," Blackjack waved it off. "Who's up for another round?"

"Again?" groaned Clandestine. "Any more, and I'll be hobbling to work tomorrow morning."

"It's on the house!" tempted the bartender.

Clandestine hesitated. "Just one more wouldn't hurt."

* * *

The night was dark, and it cast long shadows into their shared berthroom.

The blinking lights of the security system soothed Biohazard's frantic spark.

Sometimes, interfacing with Quicksilver had strange effects on his psyche. His spark contracted, but it didn't cease. It began to slow down once more, and he huffed as he plopped down beside her. Quicksilver was struggling to control her exvents, as well, but there was a smile on her faceplates.

A sweet smile that looked almost malevolent in the darkness of the room.

(And his dim optical settings weren't helping things, much.)

"Are you alright?"

There were flashes of ice in his spark, of an unfamiliar pair of faceplates, dim lighting and a cold tone of voice. _"Your behavior is impractical. It is in your best interest to cease, immediately."_

"I'm fine," he managed to breathe out. "Just - sometimes I think we overdo it, a little."

She laughed, a sound that was almost sad. "I like to make up for lost time. You know me. I'm sorry if I pushed you." She turned onto her side, linking their fingers together with a gentle glow in her optics.

"You didn't - I was just as eager. You know I could never turn down an opportunity to feel you in every way that I can. Your spark is sometimes the only thing that keeps me going."

He squeezed her fingers in turn, and she beamed at him before coming closer to press a kiss to his lip components. "I'm glad. I know you're my everything, Biohazard, and if I ever lost you - I wouldn't know how to _live_ , anymore."

They both fell into a soothing silence. The darkness no longer frightened him.

The voices faded away.

He had always known she had been with another before their initial sparkmerge. He just hadn't wanted to intrude, to ask questions he had no right to ask. It had been painful for her, he knew. He knew the other mech had hurt her in ways he never would. Or _could_.

And sometimes, when she lost who she was in their merging like this, she let tiny bits slip, without realizing it. And he could see glimpses of who he was. Whoever he was, he was not a mech who felt as strongly about Quicksilver as _he_ did.

And he was glad he could help her feel loved, even if it was too late to repair the damage that had been done. "I love you," he whispered to her, because those were words he never wanted anyone but her to hear.

(Something like guilt waded through his spark. But he paid it no mind.)

"I love you, too, Bio."

It was more than guilt that attacked hers. Guilt, regret - and fear.

Fear of losing Biohazard like she had lost _**him**_.

But she wasn't going to let that happen. No, if she lost him, she would make certain she would join him in the Well, as soon as she could manage it. She hated to be alone.

If she was alone, again, she would be forced to remember every word she had never dared to say, not just to him, but also before the two of them had ever met.

To Shockwave.

The war had been too long, and she wasn't ready to face the facts.

She wasn't ready to admit that she had been wrong, that the mark had been burned off, painted over, but that it still burned over her metal plating as if it had never been removed.

No, he believed in her. He trusted every word she had ever said. He had no idea who she was. And she couldn't do that to him - she couldn't break his illusion of having bonded with a good, honest person.

In his optics, she saw the best side of herself that no one had ever believed in.

She wasn't ready to admit that she regretted being a Decepticon, because Biohazard, at spark, was an Autobot. Even without having been born to make the choice, she had always known what he would choose.

And even if it was wrong, she wanted to pretend she was an Autobot, too.

She wanted to pretend she was someone else, someone he could love, someone who was worthy of Biohazard. Even if it took her whole life to convince herself of this lie.

It was the ultimate deception. And she was ready to commit this last sin.

Code of Decepticon honor be damned.

And Megatron could _kiss_ her aft. There was no way she was ready to hand Biohazard over to him. No way she would let him taint Biohazard's beautiful spark with those filty, energon-covered claws of his.

No. No. _No_. Biohazard was _**hers**_. _He_ was her happy ending. _**Forever and ever**_.


	8. 06: Great and Terrible

"When he died, all things soft and beautiful and bright would be buried with him."

\- Madeline Miller, _the Song of Achilles_

Quicksilver felt her optics onlining, slowly, but surely.

She didn't want to wake - she wanted to stay in her berth, with Biohazard's arms around her. She didn't want to leave. But she knew she didn't have any reason to feel this way - it had been some time since she had last felt nervous like this. A long time since she had felt that she was on the verge of losing everything.

Starscream had once termed it _working herself up with old fears_ \- but she, herself, called it an ominous premonition of things to come. He didn't understand, Starscream. He didn't know what it was like to lose someone.

It left a sour taste on the glossa, a terror of history repeating itself.

Chromedome knew this feeling well. After nearly losing Rewind (of which had never been thoroughly explained), he had begun to hold on as tight as he could, accompanying the smaller bot everywhere he went. The archivist didn't mind - and neither did Biohazard. He smiled, and he laughed, and he teased her, but he still kissed her all the same and begged her, with just his optics, to stay. And stay she did.

(But not this time.)

Biohazard had things to do - _important_ things. The first trial run of his revolutionary device would take place today, with a volunteer he had met the day before at the briefing session. And Quicksilver? Well, she had reporting to do.

Her supervisor had mentioned plans of sending her along with Rewind and Veritas to interview a survivor of the strange things taking place in the tunnels of Kaon. Strange, _unpleasant_ things. She didn't know why in the _pits_ Ares would want to communicate such a terrifying event to the people of Cybertron, but she wasn't exactly planning to boycott the experience, or even complain, really.

This was her job. It was unpleasant, at times, but _someone_ had to do it. _Someone_ had to keep the people of Cybertron informed. If not, how else could they prepare themselves? Who was going to warn them against wandering too close to the shadows if not _her_?

(No one, that's who.)

"Bio, come on, get up," she mumbled, voice filled with static. She cleared her throat to try again, but there was a warm sensation against her lip components, and a laugh of,

"I know, I _know_. I'm going."

"Did you pack everything up last night?"

If it weren't for her, after all, he might forget his own _helm_.

"Er - uhm, no?" Biohazard offered a sheepish smile, his bright blue optics like the sky outside their window. It was a beautiful reflection of the sunshine that Cybertron had been missing for too long - that _she_ had been missing for too long.

"Bio," she started, her tone disapproving, but he was quick to jump up to his peds, wiping down his chassis with a _disinfectant cloth_. (Something Blackjack had gifted to them for their fifteenth anniversary - as a joke in response to what the others suspected was a _very_ active interfacing drive.)

"I know, I know. _I messed up_. But don't worry, Silver. I've got everything under control. It won't take too long to pack up all this junk. Just a few kliks, and - "

"All that _valuable_ junk. Don't you discredit yourself, now, Bio."

He paused, and tilted his helm with that boyish grin of his. The same one that made her spark skip a pulse. "Right. Valuable." He chortled, and then began to whistle, something she marveled at. (She could never figure out how he made those sounds.)

"Did you get a call from that mnemosurgeon, yet?"

"Yeah. She called me up a few days ago - I coulda sworn I'd told ya!" he turned to face her, blue optics very confused. His optical ridges were even furrowed in that endearing little manner that she liked so much.

"You did. I was only testing you. Can't be anywhere else but in your own helm today, Bio. After all, I'm here to keep you on your toes," she stretched out her nimble limbs, a yawning grin tugging at her lip components.

He paused to admire the show, and she decided to really give him something to look at. She giggled as she flashed him a peak at her innermost spark chamber before closing it up, and then tilted her helm in that alluring manner he liked so much, with an innocent blinking of the optics. "Is something wrong?"

"No. No, my vixen, nothing is wrong." He leaned in close, pressing a chaste kiss to her lip components, and then stood up straight to begin gathering his materials in a box. She stretched one last time, enjoying the last of the rising sun's flashy show, and got to her peds to help him.

Sometimes, she reminded herself that she didn't deserve him - but after all, without her, _where_ would he be?

* * *

The brisk morning air slapped against her heated cheekplates, and Mnemosyne made certain that she checked, and double-checked, one last time that the door behind her had really been locked. Triple-locked. There was no reason to concern herself, or _him_ , with the possibility of anyone walking in on their private affairs.

Guilt flooded her spark like a tidal wave, but aside from worrying and fretting about it, there was really nothing she could do. There was no point in feeling guilty. Relish _knew_ what he was getting into when he asked her to enter into a courtship with him.

And yet, she couldn't help feeling as if, somehow, she had wronged him.

She had never made it clear that they were exclusive, and yet, he had tried to cross that line. A few months ago, almost a year, now, he had asked her to form a bond of the spark with him. She hadn't known what to say. She had been immersed in the processor of another 'bot, someone she knew well, a close friend, and she had nearly ruined the whole operation with a single mistake. She was a practicing surgeon, and she did her duty well, but his confession, his nervous giggles and happy words, they had caused her to slip up. Her optics had widened, and she had turned her helm, distracted herself, at the wrong moment.

It was a miracle they allowed her back through that door into that operating theatre to continue working. She hadn't needed to say anything, because his expression had confirmed that he felt guilty for his carelessness. She was preparing to tell him the truth, that someone else was in her life, that someone else had somehow won the spark that should only pulse for him, but she hadn't been able to. The words had froze in her throat, nearly suffocating her when she saw the coolant in his optics.

She refused, and he had broken. But he still loved her, and still kissed her, and she felt worse with every kiss. Every kiss killed a part of her, because she knew she was doing something worse to him than lying when she kept her silence.

How could she explain that her heart wouldn't have belonged to another if he hadn't unlocked it, first? How could she explain that her love for Relish made her love for _him_ stronger?

It was all so fragged - and it was even worse in her head, even more confusing.

So, she didn't talk about it. She went to work, and she worked until she couldn't feel anything else in her spark but the panic of losing a patient, and then she went home, and she fell into a deep recharge. The next morning, she lied to Relish, went to see _him_ , lied to _him_ , walked with Relish to the hospital, and repeated the same pattern from the day before. Work, sleep, lie, kiss, lie, lie, _lie_.

She was worse than those Decepticons - at least _they_ weren't in the business of hurting the people they loved.

Today, she couldn't take it, so she walked to work, alone. She called Relish and told him she had to beat a meeting, that she was late and so she couldn't walk with him. It was a lie, but she needed some time to clear her processor. She'd had enough - today, one way or another, she was going to make her decision.

And Biohazard had offered to make it easier (without knowing) by giving her the most difficult offer she'd had all her life - to test out an experimental treatment. If all went well, she had secured herself a promotion to a better job in Iacon. If not, then she would be forced to stay here and face her demons, again and again. Either way, she would choose. She could do this, she _knew_ she could.

It was all a matter of diligence. If she took the job, she would choose _him_. If she didn't, even if the experiment went well, she would choose Relish. It all depended on who she really loved. And she already knew the answer to that - or so she _wished_ she did.

She sighed, and felt her spark drop to her peds when she nearly ran into someone who came in at a run from the opposite direction. "Pardon me," she excused her, optics flickering to meet those of the perpetrator.

"No, no, pardon _me_. I wasn't watching where I was going, dearest."

She blinked. "Sorry? Do I know you?"

"Oh, excuse my manners," he flashed her a grin, and extended his servo. "Banshee. We're going to be working together, with Biohazard."

"You're the volunteer?" she inquired, taking his servo and giving it a firm shake.

"Yes. Yes I am." He grinned, and fell into step beside her on the wide sidewalk. No one looked at them as they went along on their way. Nothing to see - just two members of the working class. "I'm excited. Am I the only one _excited_ about this?"

"You may well be," she murmured, checking her internal clock. "It doesn't seem to me that many people out there believe in the _sanctity_ of this project. Perhaps Biohazard's reputation precedes him in such a way that it ruins any chances he has of making an honest living."

"Perhaps," he hummed in agreement, that smile never once leaving his lip components. "But I believe in Bio. I really do. He's a great guy, and he's ahead of the curve, you know?" He tapped a (polished) finger against the curve of his temple. "A real fixer-upper. He's trying harder than anyone I've ever met in this sorry place we call home. He wants things to get better, and he's capable of turning dreams into realities. So. I believe in him. It's a noble cause he reaches for."

"Well, I had no idea Biohazard was a worship-worthy deity," she sighed out. "But I'm sure he'd be glad to hear all that - the part about you believing in him, anyways. I wouldn't mention anything _else_ to him. He embarrasses easy."

"Like yourself, madam?" the other mech winked an optic, and she felt a rush of heat flood into her cheekplates. Was he ...?

"My apologies if I'm a little forward. I've always had a thing for doctors."

"I'm a surgeon."

"Same thing."

She felt a smile tugging at her lip components for maybe the first time in months.

"Well," he extended an arm around her shoulderplates, a spark-warming gesture. "Let's see about that trial run, eh?" She exchanged a grin with him (with a smile of her own), and then they both turned to catch the sight of Biohazard, the same air-headed scientist they all knew and loved (honestly, if all of Kaon _didn't_ know of him, already, it'd be a damn _miracle_ ), making his way towards them with a box in his servos and an easy grin on his face.

"Yes. _Let's_."

* * *

The laboratory smelled of a strange chemical compound that Quicksilver couldn't quite place - she did, however, know that whatever Biohazard had been tinkering with was (most probably) flammable, if the suspiciously recent scorch markings that placed dents into the walls and tables were anything to go by.

(Or the smell of newly-applied disinfectant and fire repellent.)

"Did you run into an accident with the mnemo patch, doctor?"

This was Banshee, making light of the situation. Honestly, if this was what she had walked into while attempting to pose as a test subject for a yet-untried-project, she would be more than whimsical - she'd be downright nervous, and she might even call the whole thing off.

But because this was going into her salary, and might land her a better job, away from the temptations of Relish, she had no other choice. Plus, if something went wrong, the lawsuit would fall onto Biohazard's shoulderplates, as per the contract.

"No, not with _that_ ," came the reassuring laughter from Biohazard, who was setting up his equipment, as well as a datapad (in order to note his observations), near the north corner of the large room. "I was attempting to recreate an atom-bomb, just a tiny one - like the ones described in historical texts regarding organic warfare. However, my _tiny bomb_ turned into a _medium-catastrophe_."

"I'm going to take a stab and guess that you had to promise never to try that again?"

The scientist clicked his glossa. "How _right_ you are, Banshee. How right you are."

A few moments of silence passed between the trio, as Biohazard worked to hook up the proper equipment to its designated fuel source. "Alright. Banshee, if you will?"

He indicated a rather-comfortable-looking medical slab.

The other mech ran his fingers alongside the soft fabric, and, once he caught her looking, Banshee gave Mnemosyne a conspiratorial wink. "Might as well die in comfort."

The mnemosurgeon laughed, a nervous, hollow sound, but Biohazard paid them no attention. He turned and gave the time piece attached to the west wall a sparing glance.

"We haven't got any time to lose, right?" Banshee slid onto the slab.

Biohazard approached the other mech, made a few preliminary observations by turning his helm this way and that (gently, so as not to cause discomfort), and then he clicked his glossa while he wrote down what he had seen.

He then turned, spotted the device sitting, forlorn, on the edge of a large table. Another look confirmed that he hadn't supplied the necessary synthetic fuel source. "My dear," he addressed Mnemosyne, who looked up with rapt attention. "I'm afraid I forgot the synthetic energon. I know for a fact that I have a jar sitting upstairs in my study. It's a luminescent green substance - you can't possibly confuse it for anything else. Do you mind?"

"Of course not," she turned on her heel and made her way to the door. She had memorized their way in - after all, she wasn't called _Mnemosyne_ because of her job. She just didn't remember seeing any jar on their way in... Maybe he had a second study?

(Or maybe that work-space wasn't his official study...?)

"I'll be back."

"Don't you worry - I'm in no hurry," remarked Banshee, before snickering at his own joke. The last thing she heard before the door closed behind her was, "Would you look at that? I'm a rhyming fiend!"

* * *

As soon as Mnemosyne had left the room, Biohazard turned to face his volunteer test subject. "Out of necessity, I have to ask: which section of your memory data core do you want to seal?"

The other mech's expression changed, drastically. His smile was just gone, replaced by an unreadable downward-tilt of the lip components and a stony look in his optics that Biohazard couldn't quite place.

(That sent an undeniable feeling of _dread_ through his gut.)

He tried to shake it, and turned away to eye the device warily, wondering whether that was just the face the other mech made when he was thinking. After all, this was quite a serious subject. Sealing away a memory particle was no laughing matter.

He needed time to think over his options. Biohazard could pretend he hadn't noticed that look. It didn't seem to be meant for his optics. It looked to be meant to be _private_. "Do you need any time to think it over? That is perfectly understandable. I, myself, wouldn't be able to make such an important decision in just a klik - "

"No, no, _friend_ \- I've _already made_ my decision."

"Oh?" Biohazard turned, optical ridges furrowed. There was a look in Banshee's optics that scared him. He tried to swallow, but there was a lump in his throat. He couldn't breathe. The air that had been comfortably warm was now a noose, closing, closing...

"Well, what's your decision, then? Childhood moment you'd rather do without?"

Biohazard tried to laugh, but the noise came out all wrong, strangled. Like his vocal receptors had glitched. Banshee splayed his fingers across the slab of metal beside him, and then he slid off onto his peds, optics alight with a glint of amusement.

Mirth.

Then, Banshee opened his mouth and laughed, a loud, startlingly off-key sound. There was a low whine that laced his laughter - no, a _tremor_. Like the air around them couldn't quite contain the sound.

What... what was he doing?

Banshee pushed past the frozen scientist, tracing a finger along the length of the device, pulling out one of the needles to examine it. Then, he pushed it back, a violent notion accentuated by a grin that was every bit as unnerving as his laugh.

(As this whole moment, really.)

(Had Biohazard fallen asleep? Was this a strange nightmare he was having?)

"No. Not _quite_. But I'm certain _this_ memory you can do _without_. See, good doctor, you won't be erasing or sealing _anything_. _**Not now, or ever**_."

Biohazard turned on his heel-strut, confusion masking his faceplates, but then there was cold metal pressed to both sides of his helm, and he found himself staring right into those red optics. Those red, red optics. And suddenly, he saw the scratchings, the whispers of a branding once forgotten. Down by his right shoulderplate.

 _Decepticon_. Filled with a sudden fear, he tried to back away, but Banshee's grip was every bit as firm as it was freezing. (Like there was no warmth in his circuitry.)

And then, Banshee opened his mouth.

(To say something?)

(To explain himself?)

(To apologize for a cruel joke on the nerves?)

He could hear footsteps echoing through the door from the staircase outside.

Mnemosyne.

And then there was a terrible _**sound**_.

A scream. A high-pitched wailing. It hurt to listen to, and he could hear it echoing through his audial receptors, into his helm. He tried to reach, to turn them off, to tear off his audial receptors, _anything_ to make that horrible sound stop.

He didn't know when Banshee had let him go.

All he knew was that he was stumbling back, and the sound was everywhere.

There was no escape.

His servos came away covered in energon. Rich, pouring down the sides of his face.

Dripping, sliding down his armor.

Everything was blurry, and then there was a crack, and a piercing pain in his optics. He couldn't see! _**He couldn't see!**_

He turned, fell into the table, and collapsed to his knees. The screaming was still there, even though he could only hear the high buzzing in his audial receptors. He could feel his brain component seizing up, glitching. There were sparks running through his fingers, and his spark was having a hard time keeping up with the pain. It faltered once, and then twice at once. He stumbled into the door, felt it smack into him, momentarily jolting him out of his pained stupor.

He held up his helm, blind and deaf, and he felt the familiar bump. And pressed it. _Click_.

"Biohazard! Primus, oh my Primus, somebody - !"

There was screaming from outside, and someone pulling on the door frantically.

He couldn't let her come in, not while that dreaded noise lingered. There was a servo, smooth, familiar, on his shoulderplate. "Come, now, Bio. Don't fight it."

He couldn't ask why. He opened his mouth and his glossa was too dry to move.

Then, he collapsed to his knees, and fell back with a resounding thud.

The last thing he heard was Mnemosyne's scream.

The last thing he saw was a flicker of light, a menacing grin.

A flicker in those cruel red optics.

 _"I should have listened to them. I should have been careful. I'm sorry. Quicksilver, I'm sorry."_

There was a seizing in his spark, a fresh wave of pain, and then he stopped feeling, altogether.

* * *

There was just silence, and screaming. Hers.

Mnemosyne couldn't stop.

Horror filled her spark, and she looked into those red optics, those playful red optics, and all she could think about was Biohazard. In a puddle of his own energon, optics gone, gushing energon from both audial receptors.

Biohazard. Who _saved her life_ by locking the door.

Biohazard. Whose _conjunx endura_ was left in an inconsolable state - or, at least, she _**would**_ be, whenever she got word of this incident. There was still time. Mnemosyne could save him, if only she could get him out of here, and into a hospital, within ten minutes. She knew this because there were advertisements everywhere, and proof therein, of the miraculous ability of good doctors (like those in Kaon) to save a Cybertronian life - if only brought in with ample time to work. If ten minutes went by, it became difficult to salvage the fading spark.

(Though it was still possible, if the neocortex was still intact.)

She pulled on the door, but it didn't budge. One look confirmed that Banshee was holding the door closed. He offered a lazy grin, a teasing wink.

She wanted to ask him _why_ , but she knew she wouldn't understand his response.

He saw the question she wanted to scream out in her optics, clear as daylight, and leaned in closer towards the viewing space, breathing on the glass paneling and sliding his finger along the muggy surface.

 _Why_ **not** _?_

Her mouth fell open, glossa un-moving. How - why - ?

Who would be so _cruel_? Who would be so _sparkless_? Why would _**anyone**_ take the life of their brother (because they were all brothers and sisters - this was commonly accepted as truth and preached by the likes of Drift and Optimus Prime)? And to forgo even acquiring a good reason ...?

It was just _insulting_ to the concept of life.

Then, he rubbed away his words, and breathed on the glass once more. _This_ time, he wrote only one word, with a glint in his optics that she didn't much like:

 _ **Run**_.

What?

There was a clatter, a stray footstep that wasn't hers, and she froze in place.

Peering up into the rafters revealed nothing but darkness.

Biohazard hadn't invited an audience, and he hadn't needed anyone else's assistance besides her own - and _**his**_. The murderer.

(Because she had to suck it up and admit that Biohazard had been _murdered_.)

The only other person, besides herself, who had ever understood anything about this world was gone. What would they do? They were lost, now. Lost.

They had lost _**everything**_. And somehow, she had caused this with a moment's absence longer than expected. She had meant to run upstairs and fetch the synthetic fuel source - but _**he**_ had called. And she had answered. Foolishly. She should have ignored the call. She would've been able to speak to him _anytime_ \- and it wasn't like anything he said could have saved Biohazard's life - but _**she**_ could have.

And she hadn't.

She had only left them alone for a few minutes, and yet, he had been murdered in cold blood. Because of her oversight - because of her _carelessness_.

She wanted to die.

She deserved to die. It should have been her. He didn't deserve this. Biohazard was a good person, down to the spark. There were people who loved him, friends who cared for him, colleagues who valued him.

And she would have been a necessary sacrifice in his place.

Who would miss her? Relish? Sometimes she wondered whether _**he**_ really cared at all. (So she really couldn't count on _**his**_ tally.)

And now, she had lost everyone their most noble and kind brother.

How could she face them?

(This was just another memory added to the pile of those she wanted _desperately_ to forget. And _**never**_ would. _Because the worst things always stay with us_.)

There was another footstep.

She turned, and there was a loud ringing in her audial receptors.

Wincing, she stepped back, caught sight of the crack in the glass, and without thinking, without considering her only chance to save Biohazard, she fled. Like the coward she was.

She turned on her heel, and she ran faster than she ever had before.

With coolant drying in her optics before they ever spilled along her cheekplates.

She hadn't been able to cry for anything or anyone in centuries. Not since she had crawled out of that vein. Some said she had never shed coolant in her life.

Did this only prove their whispers? Was she truly as sparkless, as loveless and callous, cold, as everyone thought she was?

 _Yes_ , her processor whispered. _Yes, you are._

* * *

"So."

"So," agreed Rewind, optics meeting hers from behind the blue screen.

(Of course, she could only _assume_ that's what he had done.)

(That visor certainly wasn't of any help.)

"So?" inquired Glassmet, the mech in question. As promised, Ares had booked her an interview with the only 'bot to ever survive the happenings in the veins of Kaon. Even now, no one really had any clue as to what had happened, or what continued to happen, and speaking with a survivor was their best shot at painting a clearer picture of the events that had taken place.

(Assuming the officers who had questioned him already hadn't ordered him to keep his mouth shut - lest he panic the public.)

Quicksilver had been sent along on her way early that morning - as soon as he had arrived, actually - with the accompaniment of Rewind and Veritas, two infamous archivists who would aide in visual and audio record-keeping for _Good Evening, Kaon_.

(The _actual station_ was named that. It was a silly and childish title, but it was the easiest one to remember. And so, it worked out just fine.)

Of course, she would be recording her own notes for news articles in a published journal. Just to be more thorough - it was a way of not only recording news, but theories. Thoughts. Ideas.

It was Quicksilver's only _real_ outlet.

"I was told you had something to tell us."

"I guess I do."

Glassmet looked to be very disoriented, almost in shock - as if he couldn't quite believe he had made it out of those tunnels alive. Whatever he had seen would make for a _great_ story.

"Let's start from the beginning. Tell me, what is the first thing you remember from that day?" Quicksilver pulled out a datapad, preparing to take notes.

Glassmet contemplated this question, eyeing Rewind warily. " _Who_ is that?"

"Hm? Oh, him?" Quicksilver exchanged a quick look with said archivist. "He's an archivist. Camera-keeper. Don't worry about him. It's just you and me."

"Exactly," chimed in Rewind, who, catching the look of exasperation from the reporter, quickly backtracked. "Er, I mean, I don't exist. Just ignore me. Shutting up, now."

"Where's the other one?"

"Veritas?"

Glassmet gave a nod of the helm. Quicksilver hummed and crossed her legs. "She's out - busy. Got a call that needed her urgent attention."

"She worked with the Primal Vanguard, right?"

Quicksilver's expression shifted. "How did _you_ know that?"

"I'm, a, uh, collector. Of historical entries. And badges. I know what the badges of old look like. That badge she wears on her chassis tells me all about her position off-world with the Vanguard. As an ambassador."

The other two exchanged looks once more. "Interesting."

"Is it?"

"Yes. I hadn't any idea that those records were open to the public."

Partially because the senate preferred facts of the past to be kept from the people - _who knew_ what the people could do with all that contraband information?

"They're not. I have level 4 security clearance. I work _**underneath**_ Kaon - in sector 51."

"So that's how this happened to you? The perpetrator was an opportunist?"

"Your guess is as good as mine. All I really know is that nobody had warned me about - about - _**it**_. I knew about the parasites, and the shifting of levels. I was prepared for that. Armed. I had security cards and passwords imprinted into my data core. What I didn't have was level XI armor or level 5 weapons upgrades."

"Level XI - ? What happened to you, Glassmet?"

"It's been five days, ma'am, and I still have _no idea_. There was something there, something alive and sentient, something with red optics and a smile like Galvatron - and it can easily get past any armor that's been cleared for civilians. None of us stand a chance down there. I had level VIII armor and it couldn't stop the creature's denta, much less its claws. And I could feel my spark, just - just," the mech placed his helm into his servos, breathing slowly.

Quicksilver exchanged a look of concern with Rewind, and then put down her datapad, moving forward slowly to place a servo against his shoulderplate. He shuddered, and then looked into her optics with his own blue ones, terror evident in their depths.

"Just don't let anyone go down there. No one will make it out. No one. Luck is what saved me, and luck runs out."

A shudder ran through her own spark, and for a moment, Quicksilver assumed she was reacting to his words, to the terror permeating through the room. But then there was another shudder, and then her spark convulsed, and pain arched up through her circuitry, burning away her energon.

Her helm was pounding, and her optics burned.

 _Biohazard_.

She knew, without asking, without even calling him, that he was dying.

Panic coursed through her circuits, and she jumped to her peds, abruptly, startling Rewind and Glassmet, who were carrying a conversation on in her prolonged silence.

"Quicksilver?"

She couldn't even meet his gaze - she had to get out of there, had to find him, had to hold him tight and make sure he was okay. Sometimes, she felt these phantom pains from when Shockwave had been killed, and she was never certain if it was her memories or Biohazard.

(Something told her now that it wasn't luck, anymore.)

"Quicksilver, what's wrong?"

"Bio," her expression displayed her pain.

It was written all over her face.

Her throat felt tight and dry, and her spark felt wrong. Alone.

"It's Bio!" she turned and fled from the room, making her way downstairs as quickly as possible, paying no attention to the sharp curves or turns. The pitter-pattering of peds behind her alerted her to Rewind's presence - he had followed.

The glass door to the outside world swung open, without warning, and in came Veritas, checking something on a datapad with a concentrated frown decorating her face.

"Out of my way!" was her unceremonious declaration, and the poor mini-bot shuffled to the side as quickly as possible, alarmed, before recognizing the speaker.

"Quicksilver? Rewind? What's going on?"

Rewind pulled on the other 'bot's arm, stringing her along as the two of them followed her down the streets of Kaon, winding through narrow passageways and maneuvering wide, busy streets.

"It's her spark-bond," piped up Rewind, slightly out of breath. "Something must have happened to Biohazard."

"How would she know with all that distance?" Veritas was puzzled. "Is it like the bond I formed with Soundwave?" She sidestepped a bustling mech, who gave the trio a startled look before continuing on his way.

"Stronger. This was formed with purposeful merging of the sparks for nothing other than love. One of the side effects is that she can feel everything that happens to him, or that he feels, and vice versa."

"Oh, dear," Veritas murmured, and Rewind shrugged.

"It's not usually so bad. Until one of the bonded pairs is dying or dead or hurt in some way. It was much more dangerous to bond during the war. Now, it's pretty rare to lose your other half." Rewind stopped to catch his breath, and Veritas stopped with him.

"Shouldn't we keep up?"

"Not really. She knows where he is. We need to get help - "

"Excuse me," both parties looked up into the face of a breathless femme. She looked to be trying hard to stay calm. "The two of you work with Quicksilver, right?"

"Yes," answered Rewind, and then inquired, "You're Mnemosyne, right? Weren't you supposed to be working with Biohazard on his trial run? Did something happen?"

"Unfortunately, there was," she paused, searching for the right word. "An _incident_. He's in the hospital, and it looks bad. I don't think he's going to make it."

"What? Why? Were you there?"

Mnemosyne's expression dissolved, and her optics lowered. Almost as if in shame.

"Weren't you?"

Rewind seemed intent on getting answers.

"I - I wasn't. No. Not at the time. By the time I got back into the room, he was - he was - look, I only left him alone with him for a few minutes, tops. I didn't think - we _both_ didn't think - "

"Whole lot of good _thinking_ did you," he shot back. And then he sighed, placing a servo to his helm, and gestured to where Quicksilver had gone. "I'm sorry. That was unnecessary. You did your best. There was no way you could have known."

"We both trusted him. He seemed so - so kind. And he made us laugh." She knew the excuses were just that - excuses. But she couldn't help trying to excuse herself. This always happened to her. Everyone else involved in a crisis either died or disappeared, leaving her trying to explain why the situation fell apart.

(And she was the one to blame. No one had said it, but she knew they thought it.)

(The medics hadn't said anything, but the looks they had given her, asking why she left him alone, what had happened - the only thing left to do was outright accuse her of negligence.)

(Everyone needed a scapegoat to blame when the world fell to pieces.)

"Hey, don't start blaming yourself. It _really_ wasn't your fault. Neither Rewind nor I think that. And I doubt anyone else does, too," Veritas gave the other archivist a stern look of disapproval, and the mech hung his helm, guilt pervading through his EM field.

"I'm sorry."

"No, it's okay. I blame myself, too."

She turned, and she left, without another word, spark pulsing and mouth stinging with the taste of waste. Her tanks were churning, and she felt sick.

She couldn't take anymore of this.

It was time to go home.

* * *

By the time the two of them caught up with Quicksilver (during which time Veritas spent scolding Rewind for his hurtful reflex), the femme was in the arms of an officer who was desperately trying to hold her back from barging into the ICU.

"Ma'am, I need you to calm down. We can't let you in there like that. Those patients in the ICU need all the help and attention they can get," tried to reason one of the other officers, a femme with blue plating, her blue optics flashing with concern as she exchanged a wary look with her senior officer, a mech decorated with medals and badges.

The trio of officers didn't appear to have gotten much recharge in the last few days, but with the noise generated by the events underneath Kaon, it wasn't hard to imagine why.

This all fell on their shoulderplates, and _they_ were to blame for the danger presented to the people.

"Officer? What's going on? Can't you see she's trying to get to her _endura_?"

"It would have been nice to have been told," grunted the officer struggling to restrain her. "All she did was come in wailing like a lunatic."

"Smokey," warned the femme, whom received a gesture of defeat in return. This caused him to release the other femme, whom wasted no time in dashing ahead into the ICU ward. Both officers exchanged looks, before beginning to make their way towards the double doors - only to be stopped by their superior officer.

"Let her go. We have no business interfering in the matters of the spark. Primus knows if anyone can save him, it's _her_."

"She's not a medic," protested the other mech, whom received a look of scorn from his superior. "All I'm saying is that she could interfere and cost him his life!"

"No, she couldn't. She's a licensed bio-geneticist, an engineer, so he's right, Smokescreen. If anyone can save him, it's her. She's a genius. Mentored by Shockwave, last I heard."

"Biohazard died fifteen minutes ago," came a voice from their right. Both Veritas and Rewind turned to face the medic, an old friend of theirs from their days on-board the _Lost Light_ : Ratchet.

Ratchet gave them both a searching look. "Why are the two of you standing in my hospital? This can only bring bad things."

"Gee - we love you, too," muttered Veritas.

"Ratchet, we're not here to argue. We're here with Quicksilver." That received a blank look. "The femme who just came in? She's here to see her _endura_ : Biohazard. Something's happened to him, right?"

"I know who she is, imbecile," snapped Ratchet, and then he sighed and placed a servo across his plated chin, optics filled with regret. "He's dead. That's who I was talking about. He died before we had the chance to work on him, but we tried. And we failed, as expected. His brain components were melted. He never had a chance."

There came a wailing from inside, and both mini-bots exchanged concerned looks.

(Rewind looked distinctly sad.)

(He had known the mech for years, courtesy of Chromedome - a friend of the mnemosurgeon's. The mech had a good spark and was filled to the brim with good intentions. Sometimes, that was enough to keep someone alive and safe, but mostly, it wasn't.)

(He hated that it took _this much_ to remind him of that.)

"Can we - ?"

"Of course." Ratchet directed his next words to the officers. "Let them through. They're here to say their goodbyes."

The trio of officers moved to the side, expressions solemn.

"I lament your loss, my friends," said the femme officer.

"Duly noted." Rewind wasn't in a generous mood.

He went inside, but Veritas stayed back. She didn't know the deceased, and she felt it would be best to respect those who did, as well as the dead, by letting them have their last moments alone.

"Did you know him?" she inquired of the officers.

"No," responded the femme. And then she grimaced. "I've seen him, yes. Who hasn't? He's the biggest news around here. Biohazard of Kaon, originally hailing from Iacon. Genius, he was. But no, I haven't personally met him. I'm beginning to appreciate that, you know? It's always sad to lose someone you love."

"Surrexit," scolded their superior officer.

"It's the truth, Decorum. I don't think she minds my saying."

"I don't," agreed Veritas. "I feel the same way."

Surrexit lowered her helm. "Nonetheless, tell them - tell them - _nothing_. Don't say anything. I don't have a right to ask you to intrude on their privacy."

Veritas nodded her helm, grim.

It was a sad thing, indeed, to lose the one you loved.

But sadder still was when you hadn't even been able to say your goodbyes before they left you on your own.

* * *

"We tried."

"Not hard enough," shot back Quicksilver, blinded by her sorrow.

Her Biohazard - her beautiful, kind, loving, gentle Biohazard. He wasn't moving. Stiller than he had ever been. Wasn't talking - quieter than ever. And he would never tell her another brilliant idea again, never shower her with kisses in private, never steal a touch of the servo when no one was looking.

It was all just - just _gone_. Just like that. Without warning.

She wanted to scream, but her throat was hoarse from all the screaming she had done before. She wanted to die, but she wasn't brave enough.

(Or stupid enough. Unfortunately.)

(It was easier to be simple-minded - that much she knew to be true, especially now.)

(The geniuses were eliminated, the good people died, and the evil all lived on.)

Rewind didn't rebuke her statement, and First Aid didn't take it personally. This was what happened when a loved one was grieving - they lashed out, and they bit, and they scratched, and they screamed. In all their desperation - but it still wasn't enough to bring back the one they had lost. And that truth made it much worse.

Much more _terrible_.

Hope was fading, replaced by shock, a numbing feeling.

She had lost _everything_. _**Everything**_.

"Take him."

"What?" First Aid was snapped out of his stupor.

She'd had enough of the piteous looks, and she knew that, once more people found out, it would get worse. Her supervisor would pull her to the side, ask if she needed time off - and people would tiptoe around her, try not to rock the boat.

Try not to re-awaken the grief.

But what they didn't realize is that it would never sleep.

Not after losing everything she had ever loved.

Biohazard was her everything - and he was gone. And there was nothing left for her. There was no point in hanging on to the body. They were conducting experiments on mortality - it was best to lend them his body. One last token to science.

Biohazard would have liked that.

"You heard me."

She said nothing else - and she was gone within moments.

Rewind exchanged a look with First Aid.

"Does she need to sign anything?"

"No. We'll take it from here."

There was a servo on his shoulderplate, and Rewind turned to face the medic.

"Look after her, Rewind. I'm worried about her."

"So am I, First Aid. So am I."

* * *

The coolant was sticky, and she did nothing to stop it from spilling.

She couldn't feel the cool sting, anymore. It was gone, just like everything else.

She shouldn't have let him go. She should have listened to her intuition, to her spark. It had tried to warn her, whispered not to let go, and she had let go, and she had lost him forever. How could she be so stupid?

How could she be so careless?

It was different from losing Shockwave, but the same.

Shockwave had never felt the same way for her, but he had still cared about her. Even if he couldn't show it. Biohazard had been everything Shockwave could never be, but they had both been torn away from her.

Without warning. Without a sound.

Just a blip in life, another name on the Necrobot's list.

She could see it, now. The Necrobot. Standing in the corner of the room, expression blank, optics devoid of life, or sympathy. Just staring. Watching. Waiting.

It was only a matter of time before grief and pain consumed her.

He had been there for most of her life, and Biohazard had chased him away, but only momentarily. All things were mortal, _especially_ those she cared about.

She didn't move, didn't even blink. Didn't bother looking at the door, didn't answer their questions (Rewind or Chromedome, who had heard the news and come over to make sure she - and Rewind - were okay, even though he was consumed with grief at losing a friend, too). All she could do was cry, and stare.

And try to forget how it felt to have Biohazard's arms wrapped around her.

Because it was _important_ to get used to not having him around.

Especially if she was going to live past this.

(Though she wasn't so sure life was even worth living, anymore, she couldn't do that to Calibrate. Not that sweet femmling. The femme had already lost Biohazard. She couldn't lose the one person whom had shown her everything she knew about inquiry and curiosity, the person who had showered her with affection and loved her and trusted her since day one.)

(She couldn't lose that, too.)

She was selfish. She wanted to live, to suffer, because there would never be anyone else like Biohazard, and she wanted to make sure no one forgot that.

But for now, she would suffer alone, in silence. Because it was what she had learned to do. And it's as they say: old habits die hard.

* * *

"She's going to suffocate on her grief, Chromedome." Veritas didn't like this one bit.

It stank of death. If she wasn't careful, Quicksilver could wind up following Biohazard to the grave. And if her suspicions were correct, this was _exactly_ what Quicksilver wanted.

"No. She will live. But we have to ensure that she doesn't go to drastic measures to erase her pain. I know the temptations that arise when you lose the person you love most," was Chromedome's response. He and Rewind exchanged a single look, an expression of sorrow and sympathy written across the archivist's faceplates.

The mnemosurgeon decided not to address it. "I am willing to stay with her for as long as she should need. When Rewind died, I wanted to be alone, but solitude does no one any good when they are filled with grief."

"In that case, I'll stay, too," piped up Rewind.

Chromedome gave him a searching look. "Are you sure? Don't you have a job to do?"

"I think Ares will understand. The three of us, Veritas included, we work together. So it's not like he won't know why we're not there. Besides, we can't proceed without her. It's not right. She's our anchor."

"Literally and figuratively," murmured the femmbot.

Chromedome had arrived an hour after the two of them had tracked Quicksilver down at the hospital and taken her back to her home, at her own request. She hadn't wanted to say goodbye - she had insisted it would only make his death permanent.

She was holding on to the hope that they could bring him back, like they had done for so many others at the servos of First Aid - but Veritas could see through her lies. She just didn't want to admit to herself that he was dead - the truth was killing her, too.

There was the screeching of a closing door, and all three parties exchanged concerned looks. Chromedome got up, prepared for the worst (the officers hadn't yet tracked down the perpetrator of Biohazard's demise), but instead was faced with a grim-faced Clandestine.

She wasn't alone. Her colleague, an old friend of the other three, followed in after her. Rung. (Chromedome wasn't about to admit how relieved he was that the two of them had showed up - especially Rung. He, himself, didn't know how to deal with anyone's grief but his own, selfish as that sounded.)

"Where is she?"

"In their room."

Clandestine greeted the other two with a mere nod of the helm before making her way toward the door at the farthest end of the entrance hall, and Rung decided to sit with them and wait it out.

"Any news?" asked Rewind.

"They haven't found the guilty party, yet," Rung didn't look to be at all pleased with this outcome. "They haven't even got evidence that the volunteer used his real name. Mnemosyne isn't much help - she told them his name, but she couldn't say much else. She got violently sick and had to leave, lest her systems upset themselves. She's never seen death, before. I don't reckon most new-sparks have."

"Are they going to try again?" Chromedome couldn't let the officers let this slide. Not this one. Biohazard had been a good person with a good spark - at the very least, he deserved justice. And Quicksilver? She was all alone, now. She was surrounded by people who cared about her, but he knew what it was like to lose your other half. No matter how many people were there, it never measured up to the person you had loved and lost.

The least _she_ deserved was closure.

"Yes. They've closed off the crime scene. I heard they were calling in Ultra Magnus. Most officers aren't equipped to deal with violent crimes. It just doesn't happen. Until now, I suppose. And the fact that the perpetrator is practically a ghost? It doesn't help their case. They searched every database - he just doesn't exist, according to Cybertronian archives."

"Who told you all this? I didn't know officers went around blabbing about this stuff. If they're just telling anyone, the killer could get away," Rewind was more than sufficiently concerned.

"Surrexit told me because I insisted. It's not a good idea to burden Quicksilver with the details of the investigation, but knowing her situation, it's better that when she asks, I tell her - rather than the alternative."

"What's the alternative?" inquired Veritas.

"She goes looking for answers herself," he adjusted his optical corrector. "That could land her in hotter water than she's already wading. You never know who's waiting around the corner to keep her quiet."

"Or to finish the job," stated Chromedome, expression blank.

Another door opened and closed, and Clandestine came back into the room, this time accompanied by Quicksilver. All four of them quieted instantly - tensed, awaiting any possible reaction.

The reporter just laughed, a hollow, false sound.

"If you're worried that I'm going to run out of here and go killing innocent pedestrians, _don't_ worry. My grief hurts no one but myself."

Chromedome and Rewind exchanged another of their private looks.

"I heard everything."

Quicksilver reckoned she should air it out, get it out in the open.

No point in denying, or putting it off.

"I - I didn't mean to - "

"Don't, Rung. There's no need to apologize," interrupted Clandestine. She laid a servo over his shoulderplate, the grief permanent in her optics.

"And I agree. It's better that you keep me updated. I have ways of finding the answers I want, and they're not always fail-proof methods that keep me safe. Especially when I start to get desperate," confessed Quicksilver.

"Well. In that case, maybe you should sit down. I have something to tell you."

Before he could, however, the door to their home opened once more, and this time, it was Calibrate who disrupted their momentary peace. Her expression was stricken with grief, optics shining with coolant.

"Is it true?"

"Cali - "

"Is it?" she wasn't having any of Road Rage's attempts to soothe her.

(He had trailed in after her.)

"I'm going to pour myself a cube of energon. Anyone want some, too?" Quicksilver's announcement was sudden. She didn't wait for anyone's answers.

She was gone in a klik, the door to her refueling chamber closing behind her.

"It is. You _know_ it is," Road Rage told the other femme. She shook her helm, desperate, refusing to believe. Her optics shone with a silent plea.

 _Tell me it's a lie. Tell me he's alright._

Chromedome said nothing. Rung exchanged a look with Clandestine, wondering how best to tell her. Rewind beat them to it.

"Biohazard is dead, Calibrate."

Without warning, the calmness in her expression broke, and she burst into tears.

Rewind was alarmed, but before he could move towards her, or before Clandestine could, servos outstretched to console her, she backtracked and ran out into the streets of Kaon, without a single glance back.

"She can't be alone. Not out there," Clandestine's panic was understandable.

Road Rage turned, but before he could go after his longtime friend, Quicksilver stepped out of the other room. "I can go," she suggested, needed to do something, to feel useful.

"No," said Chromedome, tone gentle. "It's not a good idea to have you go after her. She's grieving, and so are you - we need someone with a steady spark to do it. Someone who can make sure she won't hurt herself."

"I'll go," stated Rung. He didn't wait for any acceptance or denial. He just got up and left, optics staring straight ahead, filled with care and concern. He had already let so many people slip through the cracks.

He couldn't let this happen to Calibrate. She had a bright future, and if this murderer ruined it for her, he would be killing multiple people with one stone.

And he just couldn't let that happen. He had a duty of care - and that included the grieving. That included Calibrate.

* * *

The room was silent after the sudden departure of Calibrate, and of Rung.

Road Rage looked almost lost, unsure of himself, but he straightened up when the others looked at him, wiped his faceplates clear of suffering or pain. "I'm going to check in on her," he opened the other door and walked into the refueling chamber.

As soon as the door was closed behind him, his spark, filled with regret and grief, momentarily pulsated with guilt. It was almost as if she knew. She turned to face him, expression as dead as Biohazard, and spoke, almost as if he wasn't even in the room.

As if she was accusing him of something someone else had done.

(As if she _knew_.)

"I know what you did. I know everything."

He opened his mouth, expression wired like his spark, sorrow seeping into his optics.

"Quicksilver - "

"You might have fooled everyone else, but someone remembered you. I know what you did." She repeated that twice more. Like a broken record.

Everyone else could say whatever they wanted - whoever had killed Biohazard had killed her, too. The door opened, and in came Clandestine from behind him, startling him in his brief period of guilt.

"Different people cope with grief in different ways, Road Rage," her voice was soft, quiet. "She doesn't mean that you're guilty of this. But I will have to ask you to leave so that she does not do something she will regret, for your own safety."

In other words, Quicksilver really believed _he_ was to blame for all of this.

 _ **Him**_ , when he had loved and cared about Biohazard, too.

Road Rage staggered out, unable to see clearly, and he sat down, suddenly, on one of the couches, helm in his servos. Blinking hard.

Trying to erase the pain and the fear and the guilt.

Trying to will away the coolant.

Maybe Calibrate was okay with crying in front of strangers, but _he_ wasn't.

"Are you alright?"

This was the smaller bot, a mech with a blinking red light. A camera, mounted into the side of his helm. He sighed, and got up, and he knew that the taller mech, the mnemosurgeon he had often seen Biohazard with, had seen the guilt in his optics.

He looked almost puzzled, confused. Comically so.

Road Rage left before that confusion could become suspicion.

He didn't need this.

Not _now_ , and not _today_.

His servos clenched, unclenched, clenched - optics heavy with unshed coolant.

Self-hatred poured like lead into his circuits.

Clandestine had said that different people dealt with grief in different ways.

Well, she was right.

This was how he dealt with _his_.

* * *

It wasn't raining when Calibrate fled into the streets of Kaon, but after ten minutes filled with sniffles and tears (which started back up every time she thought she was finished), the sky filled with black and purple clouds, and opened up like the universe was leaking.

The drops stung against her low-grade armor, and she was momentarily grateful that Biohazard had given her basic protocol programmings to keep out harmful substances from her systems. (Though remembering Biohazard brought her to tears, once again.)

Nobody stopped her. They watched after her quick footsteps, alarmed at the sight of sorrow in her young faceplates, but no one imagined how serious this could be. No one imagined that someone was dead, or that she was mourning.

How could they? Death was so rare in Kaon.

So rare _anywhere_.

(Yes, it happened, but not often, and not usually to anyone they knew.)

She caught a glimpse of Vos, but before she could lift her helm to make sure, he was gone. Without a word. She blinked through the stinging drops of the sky, wiping the coolant from her own optics, but he wasn't there. Probably never had been.

"Calibrate!"

She paused.

That voice - she could recognize it _anywhere_. It was Clandestine's colleague, Rung.

 _Rung_.

The same person she would die happy after merely _looking at_.

But she couldn't do this. Not now. Usually, her spark would quicken its spark at the prospect of speaking with him, but she was unable to see past the dread. The dread that when he looked at her, she would see pity in his optics.

She had worked so hard to be respected by him, to be seen as strong, like Clandestine. She wasn't a kid who needed to be cajoled. No, she would do this _alone_.

Besides, Biohazard was gone. What was the point of needing anyone, anymore?

(Especially if everyone she needed would only disappear?)

She didn't anyone to talk to her. She didn't want to cope. She didn't want to think about any of it. She just wanted to sleep, and wake up, and tell Biohazard about her horrible nightmare so that he could laugh and tell her, "You're not getting rid of me _that_ easily."

(Like he had done so many times before.)

Her head spun.

And then she collided into a blue figure.

It happened so fast she didn't have enough time to apologize before there was a strong grip on her forearms. "Cali?"

Oh, no, not _him_.

She resisted the urge to groan.

"Whirl."

She quickly wiped at her optics.

She knew he had seen them, the tears, but he (graciously) declined to comment.

"What's - um, what's going on with you three?"

She motioned to the other two, two mechs Clandestine had introduced her to.

Cyclonus and Tailgate.

(Tailgate was a real sweetspark. Maybe he was _just_ what she needed to feel better.)

(At least a little.)

"Calibrate, are you alright? You look upset," Tailgate trailed off, watching the taller mech, Cyclonus, shake his helm to warn him not to say anything. Calibrate appreciated this small notion. The last thing she wanted to talk about was Biohazard. If she tried, she might not be able to help herself.

(Yeah, she knew it was okay to cry when you had lost someone, or something important, but it _wasn't comfortable_ to cry in front of near-strangers. She hadn't met them until just recently, and Whirl, well, he served of zero comfort to _anyone_.)

"Well," began Whirl in a boisterous tone, "I just won my trillionth argument with Cyclonus. And by _trillionth_ , I mean that he can't win _**anything**_ against me."

"That's - that's good for you, Whirl-y bird," she remarked, trying hard to push the images of Quicksilver's blank expression and coolant-stained cheekplates out of her processor. It would only make things worse and compel her to cry.

(Which probably wasn't a good idea when _**Whirl**_ had full access to that visual.)

"Whirl-y bird?" he tilted his helm, single optic unblinking, staring.

At that moment, he knew for certain that something was wrong with her.

It hadn't just been the tears from the sky on her face - she had been shedding coolant.

She had been _crying_.

Crying.

Who had made her cry?

Anger rose like a wave.

"Calibrate, what happened?" Tailgate asked the question he himself wanted so desperately to know the answer to. Calibrate sucked in her breath, and then she remembered that Biohazard used to do this all the time when he was nervous.

And that he would never do it again.

Or grin at her or laugh at her jokes or cheer her up when Road Rage was being an insufferable aft. And he would never wipe her tears again.

Or tell her that everything was going to be okay.

Because it wasn't.

Nothing would ever be okay, again.

The coolant was hot against her metal cheekplates, and she turned her helm, lowering her gaze, but not before the blue helicopter pulled her in close, movements sudden and stiff.

"Come on, Cali. Maybe you should get some rest," was his sole remark, and he turned to lead her, by the arm, to her home on the other side of Kaon, near the west end of the inhabitable block (maybe three blocks away from the sealed off section to old Kaon).

"I don't - I just can't believe he's - he's really gone," she tried to explain away her distress. (Road Rage had always told her, "You better have a good reason for crying.")

But Whirl wasn't having it. "I didn't ask."

The coldness of his words stung, and she fell silent.

He seemed to think better of it, because then he said, more quietly than she had ever heard him, "I don't want you to talk about it. It causes you pain, and I don't want that."

Calibrate gave him an incredulous look, but his optic just blinked back. Something about the way he was looking at her made her spark constrict. She looked away, quickly.

But she could feel that he was still looking at her.

That was when she noticed that Rung had caught up to her.

Embarrassment coursed through her, but she knew that if she ran, Whirl would catch her. And it was better to swallow down her pride for when she was alone.

Which meant no more crying in public. Like some misplaced sparkling.

She didn't catch the distinct gratitude in the psychotherapist's optics, and she didn't notice the way he placed his servo over the helicopter's shoulderplate, expressing his wordless thanks.

* * *

Her home was empty, hollow, and smelled of freshly scrubbed floors.

Which meant that her friend, Asepsis, had come by.

(Asepsis considered a little cleaning to be a wish of good tidings.)

(And if Asepsis knew about Biohazard - which she, no doubt, _did_ \- then this was her way of saying, "I'm sorry," and, "I wish you a full recovery.")

Calibrate felt herself smile, but didn't understand how she could.

"I'll whip us up a few cubes of energon," volunteered the mini-bot.

Cyclonus responded with a grunt, and Rung thanked him, "That would be very nice."

Their voices sounded so far away.

Her gaze was fixed on the holo-photo of Biohazard, one she had taken on the day of his big meet for the mnemo patch. His smile was big and his optics bright, servos raised as he explained about his great idea, a revolution in mnemosurgery.

A revolution that ended with the last breath he took. Almost as soon as it had begun.

The mnemo patch hadn't been found. It was just gone.

There was suspicion that whoever killed Biohazard had taken the device.

But for what? If this had been a statement, would the point not have been made better by smashing the device to pieces? Why take an _aberration of medicine_ , as the critics claimed? Why?

It didn't matter, she told herself, and knew it wasn't true.

Her grief was trying to cloud her judgment, trying to make her forget everything else.

But the thought was a nagging constant. Who would take the mnemo patch, and why? Was the murder just collateral damage? Or was it intentional? What was it supposed to accomplish?

An end to the project? Or something more convoluted?

This was _hard_. She wasn't good at coming up with these kinds of (conspiracy) theories.

This was _Road Rage's_ forte.

And she didn't have the spark to call him up to ask. Not now. Right now, she just wanted to sleep. To lay down and deactivate her optical sensors and never wake up, not until the nightmare was done with, over, and Biohazard came back to her.

She didn't know what she would do without him.

There was a touch - hard, sudden, and graceless, on her shoulderplate.

"Cali - ?"

"I'm fine." Her voice was too sharp. She snatched back her arm, and, without looking into that single, unnerving optic, she began to make her way, slowly, towards her room. "I need," she swallowed hard, "to sleep."

She didn't look back.

* * *

Whirl didn't say anything to anyone. He went after her, towards her room, with a single click of his claws. "Whirl?" Rung was flooded with concern, but, more worrying yet, the ex-Wrecker didn't respond.

Before Rung could try to speak with him about giving Calibrate some space, Cyclonus placed a servo on his shoulderplate, and shook his helm. "She needs to be with someone who cares about her. _Now_ , more than ever."

"We can trust Whirl," piped up Tailgate, offering both taller mechs a cube of energon.

"I know," Rung was quick to say, and then, he paused, and thought about this new discovery. Once, he would have been surrounded by those who told him that leaving Whirl alone with a grieving mech (or femme, in this case) was a bad idea.

How things had changed.

"I know."

* * *

There was a sour scent in the small cubicle.

Needletwist. Wire-wrangler. The Churning Tanks.

Three of his strongest served drinks.

(Minus his strongest - _his namesake_.)

Road Rage wasn't a drinker. He wasn't.

So Blackjack just _couldn't_ wrap his processor around the fact that the younger mech had come in, impromptu, and demanded drinks served straight, without spritzer. Alone.

He supposed different people grieved differently.

He supposed that sometimes high-grade could make the pain fall away.

But this wasn't the right thing to do. He couldn't stand by and watch Road Rage poison his tanks when he had never drunk straight from the bottle like that, in his whole _life_.

"Road Rage?"

"'m fine."

But he wasn't.

He could barely talk straight.

Could barely walk a straight line.

Blackjack had a faithful customer of his help the younger 'bot to a seat.

Roulette gave them both a questioning look - which he promptly ignored.

Explanations would come later. Once Roulette sobered up.

The death of a friend should never be revealed under the influence of inebriation.

"Energon spritzer, right?"

Blackjack worked on scrubbing the surface of his bar clean.

The other mech groaned in response, helm dropping like lead onto his place-mat.

"Energon spritzer it is," determined the bartender.

He turned his back to work on wringing out the tubing, and he heard a whisper.

* * *

"What was that?"

The bartender was looking straight into his optics now.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, blubbered, coolant dripping down his faceplates and mixing with his saliva. He shoved his faceplates into his servos. "I'm sorry."

Roulette and Blackjack exchanged a look of confusion.

"Why are you _sorry_?"

 _It was all on me_ , he wanted to scream. _**I**_ _did this._ _ **I**_ _killed him. I should have warned him._

He couldn't force the words past his lips.

He could only repeat his apology, over and over again.

"I'm sorry."

For every pang of guilt.

"I'm sorry."

For every pang of regret.

"I'm sorry."

For being such a coward.

"I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry."

He couldn't hear anything, he couldn't see anything.

Everything blurred together through the tears.

Everything went black.

* * *

The room was dark when Rung finally dared to check in on Whirl and Calibrate.

There were shadows, hints of light.

Whirl's optic was glowing, nearly invisible. Something about his silence was unnerving.

His claws were laid across Calibrate's back as she curled into him, murmuring in her recharge and crying, still. She hadn't stopped crying since she'd gone into her room.

And Whirl hadn't moved from her side, not for a single moment.

Amazement coursed through his wiring.

It was the first time he had ever seen Whirl doing anything that wasn't rude or instigative of a fight. Especially in the care of another. Abruptly, her voice raised, the misery evident.

She asked for Biohazard, wondered why this had to happen to him, wondered what it all meant. Begged Primus to give him back.

Rung had never felt so much sorrow in his spark in watching another mech or femme suffer, not even when Rewind had died. Whirl blinked. His gaze was steady.

His touch was firm. And so was his voice.

"Shhh. No more talking. Just recharge. Just recharge."

Rung closed the door.

* * *

The air around him was cold.

He couldn't feel his face.

This wasn't unusual. His face was numb. All those scars and holes didn't let him feel his own tears. If he ever shed any.

(Which he didn't.)

(Probably.)

He could still see, very clearly, as if he were watching it in real time, the way those optics had widened in shock, the innocent confusion, the fear that was sudden, violent. The way the other mech shook, the way he tried to deny himself the inevitable reality of what was happening to him. No one wanted to believe they were dying.

And some people would do _anything_ to convince themselves it was just a nightmare.

But he didn't let her die. He went to the door, and refused her help, because she would be hurt. And he saved her life by ending his own. And that femme screamed so loud and so long.

Vos had killed so many people, he'd lost count.

But no one had ever screamed like that.

There was a different kind of pain in her voice.

Not fear for herself. Fear for someone else. Instant regret, because she couldn't do anything, and because she knew it was her fault that it had happened.

(Or so, that's what she told herself. He could see the guilt in her optics. The self-disgust in the way her lip components curled. That was the disadvantage to showing your face: everyone could see your weakness.)

And _her_. She had laughed. There was no weakness in _her_ face. No matter _how_ exposed.

The worst thing about it all was the way he had winked at them. Like he knew they were there. (He probably did.) And he thought Vos was in on it, too.

He thought Vos had enjoyed the show.

And once, he might have. And now, a small part of him, the part he couldn't shake, _did_.

But he wasn't that person, anymore. Vos couldn't remember his old name.

The one he'd had before this one. Before Tarn had named him after a site of horrific murder. Before he had donned the name and _became_ the name.

But when he did remember? When he finally remembered who he was before the war?

He was going back to that. Because he wasn't ashamed of _that_ Vos.

This sickness, this need to hurt, it had claws, and it was tearing him apart.

Chanting for blood while he struggled against it.

He didn't want to hurt people. Not now. Not ever again. And he didn't want to see Calibrate cry. He didn't want to watch her suffer.

He needed to tell her what he'd seen. But if he did, she might push him away.

And then he would truly be alone with himself.

And there was nothing worse than being alone with the monster inside.

Why did this have to happen?

Why did someone good have to die?

Where was this going? What was the point?

Not for the first time, he regretted coming here, to Kaon. Back to where it started.

He'd been foolish enough to take that doctor's advice, to face his demons. He'd been foolish enough to think it could make a difference. To think it could make the screams fade away.

Good people always died in Kaon, and it seemed like war hadn't changed that one bit.


End file.
